


Puzzled

by LavendersBlue11



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Abduction, F/M, Kidnapping, Non-Canon Relationship, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, scrappy journalists!, seriously, the slowest burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:20:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 64,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21655906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LavendersBlue11/pseuds/LavendersBlue11
Summary: Freelance journalist and research nerd Ivy Falk is mostly content, though she could do with better jobs and more money. She's mostly happy, until she backs into a stranger sent to follow her after publishing an expose on the local criminal syndicate.  Ivy is able to see patterns in most things, and is a world-class investigator.John Wick is back in.  The High Table has fallen, and an opportunist is in charge, rebuilding the network of the underworld.  There's no services, no administration, and no order.  Frustrated that he's a glorified errand boy for Gregor Sokolov, he's sent after Ivy to shake her down, but finds himself endlessly intrigued by the bright, charming woman he's been charged with.Both have a laser focus.  Both have a dodgy past.  Both make the occasional questionable decision.But what happens when the tension is high, and emotional stakes are even higher?
Relationships: John Wick/Original Character(s), John Wick/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 108





	1. Chapter 1

Reading over the last few sentences one more time before filing, Ivy pushed her black half-rim glasses up on to her head before hitting send. She was done. 5,000 words on police corruption and the local crime syndicate filed. Not realizing she’d been holding her breath, she emptied her lungs and slumped in her chair, making a right angle with her body, her butt over the edge, the seat of the chair at her mid-back. 

She sat still for a second, looking around at the piles of notebooks and empty cups that built a small cubby around her computer screen. Her apartment was a mess. She’d been working on this particular story for months, chasing down reluctant sources, painting people into corners to get them to go on the record, all while fitting in additional freelance work where she could to keep the lights on. She was, in so many words, exhausted. 

Getting up with a sigh, she moved to take what looked like a half-full coffee cup with her to the kitchen. She took a sip without looking, only to find that the liquid had evaporated and all that remained was a thick, undrinkable brown sludge. Disgusted, she turned on the tap and put the mug in the sink, filling it overzealously with soap and leaving it there to soak. Looking at her phone, she realized that she had to get to her other job. 

Ivy had become a journalist because she was interested in other people. The human condition. She laughed to herself at how ridiculous that sounded now, living in a dump in Bushwick, terrible health insurance, pitiful savings. But her side gig working at the bar reminded her of why she liked people. She enjoyed watching them from afar, the choices in interactions they’d make, each decision calculated until just enough booze was consumed...and then every decision became ridiculous. Every person was a puzzle to Ivy, and she loved arranging the pieces. She preferred long, deep investigative pieces, but really, was happy to take work wherever she could get it. 

The reality of writing in the modern age of a firehose of cheap content was that no one would hire her full-time, and work could dry up as suddenly as it rained in. She’d been burned before, remembering the desperate phone calls to her mother to float her a few hundred bucks to make rent. Save in feast times, survive the famine times, she thought, changing into a pair of black jeans a black top with a white embellished peter pan collar. The coffeemaker popped on the kitchen counter, brewing up a much needed boost. Friday, Saturday, Sunday. If she worked hard enough, she’d have $1,500 by Monday morning. Most of the way to rent. That, along with the $5,000 she'd get from her latest piece would be enough to float her for at least a month. 

She parted her hair down the middle, braided it, tucked it at the nape of her neck with a series of pins, and smeared on some pink lipstick. Keys, wallet, phone, she said meditatively to herself and she pulled on her Adidas Sambas. No one could see her feet behind the bar, she thought, so no heels tonight. Too tired. 

She pulled open the heavy industrial door to her apartment, made her way to the elevator, and stepped out on to the street to where her motorcycle was parked. She put her helmet on and stowed her purse in the top box, shutting it tight. 

Bartending, she noted to herself as she unlocked and pushed up the steel cage protecting the glass windows and doors to the Broken Arrow was a bit like a game between herself and herself. What order did it make the most sense to do things? How many beers could she open in two minutes? How many singles could she get to fill the galvanized bucket right below the cash register, next to a pistol the owner stashed amongst dusty bottles of bitter liqueurs no one ever ordered. This was a beer, liquor-and-mixer or shot of something type place with a great jukebox, and was just run down enough to appeal to the legion of hip young people and aging alcoholics that peppered the space on this late August night. It was as if everyone knew summer was coming to a close, and they had to make the most of it before pulling out winter coats and boots.

This night, though, this particular night, the barback called off. She and the doorman did the best they could, him replacing the kegs, hauling ice from the ancient machine in the dungeon-like basement, all while she managed the never-ending stream of customers. 

When there was finally a bit of a lull, Ivy stuck her churchkey into her jeans pocket and grabbed the sandwich Jason, the doorman, had bought for her earlier. Peeling a few dollars off her roll of cash, she slid it into his pocket and said she’d be back in 10. Jason nodded, and she headed to the small office in the back. 

The owner of the One Way was an elderly Ukrainian man. He very rarely made an appearance at the bar, usually only coming in Tuesdays to take the weeks earnings to the bank and replenish the store of singles and fives, but there were remnants of his reign all over the tiny office. A faded Ukrainian flag pinned above the desk. Postcards in Cyrillic from long lost family members (or so she assumed.) She’d only met him a few times, but in her 4 years working at the bar, he’d always given her a touching Christmas card with 5 $100 bills so crisp that they stuck together and a note thanking her for her service. It was more than she ever got from any of her freelance clients. 

She sat in the fraying tweed chair and sighed again. She was dead on her feet, she thought, as she ripped the butcher paper off her salami and butter sandwich from the Italian deli down the block, biting into it slowly and savoring acidic brightness of pickles cutting through the fattiness of butter and salami. It was the first thing she had eaten all day, she thought, since she’d been working since early that morning.

She had a great feeling about the story, and was excited to actually publish something interesting for once. She had begged her editor to work on it, and he relented, largely unwillingly, saying the internal investigative team should be the one to work on such an important story. But he let her. She had a feeling it was because he had a thing for her. She shuddered, thinking of his terrible blazers and curly hair so limp that it looked as though someone had chewed on it. 

She pulled her phone out. She had two texts, one from Adam, the missing bar back apologizing for not coming in after she’d ribbed him about it, and another from her fellow freelancer and sometimes friend Megan at the paper. 

“Saw your final draft come through. It’s going out tomorrow. U sure ur ready for this?” Megan asked. 

What did that mean? Perplexed, Ivy wrote back 

“Ready for what?” 

“U know. The Syndicate doesn’t like to be exposed. Ur not worried?”

Megan was trying to fuck with her. She knew it. Size her up, make her unconfident so she didn’t ask for better assignments. That bitch, she thought, phone in one hand, sandwich in the other. 

“Not worried at all :-),” she sent, stuffing her phone back into her pocket. 

She hated this aspect of the business. The cutthroat nature of competing for jobs. The syrupy compliments she’d get from her fellow writers congratulating her for “moving” work. Talking about where you’d been published at unintentional industry events. The sandwich formed a doughy lump in her mouth as she chewed contemplatively. Megan was full-time. What did Ivy have that she didn't? 

Noting the time, she shoved the crusty end of the sandwich into her mouth and washed it down with the rest of her now lukewarm coffee. “Back to it,” she said to no one. She reapplied her lipstick, tucked her blouse back in, and made her way back to the floor. 

\----

The man had been tailing Ivy for a few hours at this point. He noted her address, he noted that she rode a motorcycle. He noted her height, her approximate weight, and how he would take her down if he needed. Sokolov wasn’t very clear in his long play with Ivy Falk. He simply told John to watch her, as the information she had been able to figure out regarding his nefarious dealings that would be published the next morning was not the type that could be easily put together by someone who was stupid. Or that was Sokolov’s argument anyway, John thought it was rather stupid to expose the most powerful people in New York, personally. It took a lot to piece together the schematics of the Syndicate. Sokolov wanted to know how she did it. How long it took her.

So far though, John encountered a spacey, messy woman in her early 30s, though her long rich brown hair and steely grey eyes certainly helped with the fact that she had the grace of a baby elephant. He did admire her motorcycle, a white mid-70s Triumph Bonneville that seemed a strange item for a woman such as herself to own. He marveled that she displayed such balance on a beautiful machine, given that she practically tripped over the threshold of her apartment building earlier. 

Letting her get a few blocks ahead of him, he began to follow the sound of the humming motorcycle to wherever she was going. He heard her stop, watched her park her bike in the alley behind a dive bar, and take her helmet off. Small wisps of beautiful chestnut hair had fallen out of her braided chignon and fell fetchingly around her high cheekbones. She tossed her head and pushed the stray hairs back, tucking them into one of the pins buried at the base of her neck. She opened the top box and stashed her helmet and grabbed her purse. John made a move to follow her down the alley, but after fishing in her pockets for her keys, she waltzed to the front door, bent over, and rolled up the cage protecting the glass windows and door. 

Sokolov’s alleged genius was a bartender.


	2. Chapter 2

When 2 am finally rolled around and Jason booted the last of the customers for the night, Ivy counted the money as quickly as she could. She put her take in an envelope and locked the rest up in the ancient safe. She and Jason took turns yawning at each other. This was Jason's second job, too. He worked construction during the day, a fact she never forgot when watching his solid form check IDs. He looked like a modern day Superman, right down to the cleft in his chin. It was ridiculous. 

She dumped the tip bucket onto the bar and sorted the money. $721. Not bad for opening beers all night. She peeled off $100 and handed it Jason. 

“Thanks for your help tonight. I may have to kill Adam the next time I see him.” 

“Heh. You don’t have to do that though,” he said, sliding the money back to her.

“Jason, no. I insist. I won’t be able to sleep tonight if you don’t take it, and I really really fucking need to sleep.” 

Jason sighed, rolled his eyes, and stuffed the money into his jeans. 

“You ok to finish closing on your own, Ivy? I have a really early job tomorrow,” he asked.

“Yeah, no problem. Get out of here,” she grinned at him and put the last of the dishes into the dishwasher. 

“Alright. See ya,” Jason said, practically running out the door. 

She didn’t have much left to do, as there was a cleaning service that came in the morning to wash the floors and sanitize the tables, but she gave everything a quick wipe-down before checking the safe one more time and grabbing her purse. 

She pulled the steel cage down over the windows, bent to lock it, and backed right into someone standing far too close to a person on the street by themselves at night. 

“Excuse me,” she said, avoiding eye contact. It was probably just some drunk who didn’t know what they were doing, but upon further inspection, she noticed it was a very sober, very solid man with longish dark hair, a salt and pepper beard wearing a black suit. He looked world-weary, with an aura of tiredness. His eyes, though. Even in the yellow streetlight, the richness shown through. 

“Ivy Falk?” 

Who, she thought, was this? 

“Uh, yeah. That’s me. Who’s asking?” 

The man nodded, spun on his heel, and walked away.

“Wait just a second, no. Who are you?” she shouted after him, jogging to catch up to him. Reporter’s instinct, she thought blackly, it’ll get me killed someday. 

The man quickened his pace, until she was practically running after him. She reached into her purse and grabbed the butcher paper her sandwich has been wrapped in, now a crumpled ball with visible grease stains. She threw it. It hit him squarely between the shoulders. 

He stopped and turned around. 

“Miss, I’d head home if I were you.” 

“No, that’s not happening. Who the fuck are you? ” 

“It’s my job to know,” he said plainly. 

“Ok. That only kind of answers one question. Who are you, and what do you want? Are you serving me papers? What?” 

So they stood there, right in the middle of Smith Street, and stared at her, and if Ivy didn’t know any better, she’d swear those badger-like eyes were giving her a once over. Her shoulders tightened. She self-consciously crossed her arms in front of her and lifted her chin, trying to stuff down the fear that was rising in her belly. 

“You have no need to know my name. I am not serving you a subpoena, and you shouldn’t litter,” he said calmly as he bent down to pick up the butcher paper. He put it into the overflowing trash can on the corner. 

“Have a good night, Miss Falk,” his voice so steady it unnerved her. She watched him continue into the night, his body brimming with tightly coiled energy for someone his age. What was he, 45? 50? She thought. He was handsome, but seemed dangerous. She hoped she'd never run into him again.. 

Too shaken to ride the bike home, she called an Uber and stewed in the temporary safety of letting someone else handle getting her home. She could get the bike tomorrow. 

When she finally made it up the stairs, she stepped out of her shoes and ripped her pants off. The adrenaline was wearing off, and she collapsed on the couch. Ivy fell asleep in minutes, makeup on, contacts lenses in. 

\---

“She works at a bar, sir.” 

“I thought she was a writer. Her writing is why she’s on our radar.” 

“Both are true.” 

Sokolov turned to the mahogany bar cabinet, uncorking the decanter of scotch and pouring two healthy portions into a pair of crystal tumblers. He handed one to John and gave a pity tip to him. They drank in silence. 

“We have to find out why she knows what she knows. We cannot have any loose ends, Mr. Wick.” 

The dark haired man drank cautiously. He hated being back here. Back to this. Back to working for Russians, he thought bleakly. He’d made his bed, he thought, and he’d be laying in forever, looking at the stump of his ring finger, the burn of losing it a harbinger of why he had to be in this room at this moment. 

He gave Sokolov a curt nod, and threw back the rest of the scotch. 

“So what I’m hearing is you want her gone?” 

“No. I want to talk to her. See if she can tell me who the rats are. There’s no need to harm her. Yet.” 

“Understood.” 

John Wick put the tumbler on Sokolov’s desk. 

“I will bring her to you later today.”

“Very good, Mr. Wick. It’s a pleasure doing business with you again.” 

John nodded again. As if he had a choice. He thought of Ivy's grey eyes brimming with fear, her chiseled cheekbones, her wide, plump-lipped mouth pressed into a flat line of concern. She was taller than he thought she would based on the cursory internet search he’d done, landing on her portfolio website, although he didn’t know why you’d be able to discern height from a photo. Her bio said she was from Iowa originally. He found that charming. Most of the women he interacted with in his business were well-traveled, fashionable, sleek women. Iowa. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, wondering what it must be like to live in such an isolated place. He had to remember though, she was just another target. A payday. Nothing more. 

“How did you know it was her? It hasn’t even been published yet.” 

“Why does it matter? She’s the one airing out the dirty laundry of the Syndicate.” 

“I don’t want to hurt someone who didn't deserve it." 

“I have an informant at the paper. She told me. And remember, she's to come in alive.” 

John nodded. Noting the late hour, he thought he should rest up before having to commit kidnapping, which he admittedly wasn't very good at. He put the glass down on Sokolov's desk and left. 

“Goodbye, Mr. Wick. I look forward to your delivery this evening.”


	3. Chapter 3

Ivy woke up on the couch, her eyes feeling like sandpaper. She inhaled deeply and looked around. He wasn’t there, standing in the living room, ready to strike, like he had been in her dreams. She stood up slowly, using momentum to get her to the bathroom. She stripped, wiped off the whisper of lipstick still clinging to her lips, and groaned when the hot water hit her. 

She dressed, opened her laptop, and began to read her emails. She had two outstanding freelance assignments, and at least another week before deadline. Most of the legwork was done; she just needed to write them. Just, she scoffed. Just the hard part. 

But, she decided she was going to take it easy this Saturday morning, rationalizing that the strange man outside the bar had freaked her out a bit more than she was willing to admit to herself. She needed to relax. After all, she had a huge story dropping today, and she’d done well at the bar last night.

She contemplated going back to bed, remembering that she worked that night, but a low thrum of anxiety boiled in her chest, and she thought she should maybe get out into the world a bit. It might make her feel better, she rationalized. Besides, she had to go to the bank, the grocery store, and the post office. Maybe even go get her bike. Groaning at the thought of all of it, she pulled on a sweatshirt over her faded black t-shirt and slipped on shoes. Arms crossed over her chest and missing her bike, she left. 

The street seemed meaner today. The woman at the post office told her off for overstuffing an envelope. The teller at the bank scolded her for having folded bills. And everyone looked like him, and yet she was having a hard time piecing together his features in her mind’s eye. For safety, she reasoned, thinking of his dark eyes and thick, smooth hair. Not because she wanted to be carried off by a handsome older man.  
\---

John had parked himself in front of Ivy’s apartment a few hours before she left, and now he was right on her tail on foot. He wondered why she was walking on not her bike. He hated admitting that she looked particularly scrumptious in her tight jeans and off the shoulder sweatshirt. Like Flashdance, he grinned to himself. 

Post office, in and out. Bank, in and out. Ah, this might be the time to make a plan, he thought, as she made it to the grocery store. He caught her in the produce section, trying to decide how many peaches to get. It was peak peach season, and he could smell them even from where he was standing, and his mouth began to water, unsure if it was from the sight of her perfect round ass as she shifted from leg to leg or the fruit. Get it together, he thought. She picked two, adding them to her basket, where he noted a carton of almond milk, a bunch of broccoli, and eggs. 

She seemed skittish, like an unsure rabbit, looking over her shoulder often. He was beginning to...well he was beginning to feel sorry for her. She had dark circles under her eyes, her hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun. He had second thoughts about trying to scoop her up and into his car immediately following her paying for groceries. She’d probably be upset that they’d ended up scattered across the sidewalk, wasted. He wasn’t stupid. No one willingly works two jobs, he thought, and Sokolov only needs to talk to her. Why ruin her day more than he needed to? He was a good man, deep down, despite his plans to kidnap her mere moments later.

He left, making his way back to her building, where he surveyed the fire escape. She was on the third floor according to his observations from yesterday. The buildings were too close together for him to walk the entire perimeter, but he thought the back would be the best way to go, especially after he noticed the small patio. People don’t take kindly to strangers standing in the hallway, insisting they come quietly as you zip tie their hands behind them and clock them over the head. 

He crouched low next to the back door and waited a few minutes to make sure she hadn’t already arrived. He quickly stood up and looked through the window. Just as he thought. Kitchen. He tried the back door. Some people trusted in height as security, and found that she was one of them. The door was unlocked. 

All his worst instincts, the ones that made him exceptionally good at his job, kicked in. His heart skipped a beat when he concluded that getting inside would be easy. He carefully and silently closed the door again. 

He crouched again and listened intently. She should be arriving at any moment, and if she were efficient, she’d go to the kitchen first. He heard music. She must be home. Soft, breezy electronic music came through the open window of what he thought might be the dining room. How big was this place, he wondered. 

She came into the kitchen, and opened the fridge. He heard the gentle lull of the appliance as she put her groceries away. 

“Oh my god. May 10? Yuck.” He heard something hit what he assumed was the trash can with a loud thunk, and he couldn’t help but smile. 

He peered, very carefully, over the windowsill to see what she was doing. She had started doing dishes. The water running would cover up the sound of the door opening. He went for it, turning the knob to stand in the doorway. 

\-- 

Ivy's anxiety seemed to intensify as soon as she got home, and she had a weird, bad feeling. She felt acid in her throat, and her heart had not slowed down since she left the grocery store. She couldn’t help but feel like she was being followed, that her apartment wasn’t safe. Who was really safe though? People who lived alone had no one to help them if they got into a scrape. She shuddered at the thought of falling in the shower, of hitting her head on the closet bar. 

She went to the dining room she used as an office and got all her dirty coffee cups. Placing them in the sink, she turned on the tap and covered them in soap. Now that she was out of the haze of the Syndicate/Police Corruption story, she could clean up her apartment. It needed it, and what better way to distract herself from the man outside the bar than to scrub everything from top to bottom? Get everything back in order for when she had to dive into the next big story she’d get. She didn’t know when that was, but she always liked to be ready. 

Thinking she heard the back door open, she shuddered. That was impossible. It locked automatically. Or did it? She couldn’t remember. She’d taken the trash out a few days ago through the back, and had been desperate to get back to writing, so who knows if it was locked or not. 

Calm down, she scolded to her herself. You are fine. There’s no one here. She spun to grab the towel from the oven handle and there he was. Him. The man from the bar. 

She dropped a soapy dish and screamed. 

“Ivy, shhhh,” he whispered, lunging and putting a hand over her mouth, his other arm wrapping around her waist. She was trapped. “I will explain everything, but you have to stop screaming. Nod if you will stop screaming.” 

She weighed her options. He had about 60 pounds of muscle and the ability to sneak up on people on her, and she nodded. She didn’t know what to do but nod. If I comply, she thought, he won’t kill me!

John released her. Ivy began to hyperventilate. 

“Ivy, you are going to faint if you keep breathing like that. Please, let me help you calm down. I promise, I will not hurt you. ” 

She looked at him, pupils dilated, walking backwards until she backed up right into the sink, water beginning to spill onto the floor and seep under the appliances, her clothes wet. Ivy looked around her like a caged animal, fight or flight response totally engaged. She grabbed her bread knife from the drying rack and lunged at John. 

“Ivy. Stop. I will be able to win against you, weapon or not. Please. Let me explain.” 

“Fuck. You.” she said through gritted teeth, waving the knife, narrowly missing his wrist. 

John sighed. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. Why couldn’t she come quietly? What made you think that she would, John? You’re a fucking killer, of course she wasn’t going to come quietly. 

He grabbed her forearm, wrapping his other hand around her waist. She screamed again. He squeezed. 

“Please. Just kill me. I’d rather be dead than whatever else you’re going to do to me.” 

John’s heart sank. Is that what she thought of him? Yeah, you dummy, he thought, you showed up in her home, having broken in, she has no idea why you’re here, and you’re a scary looking guy! He wondered why he even cared what she thought of him. 

“Ivy. I’m not going to hurt you. Please. Believe me. We need to talk.” 

Ivy knew he was right. He’d best her, no matter what she did. He felt her body go slack. The knife fell to the floor, and he reached behind her and turned the water off. There’s a good girl, he thought. She sighed. 

“Ok. Let’s hear it. And if you’re going to kill me, can you just clean up afterwards? I like my landlady.” 

\--- 

I cannot believe that this is happening to me, she thought. 

His grip on her loosened. He led her to her couch, pointed to the cushion, and she sat. He pulled her desk chair into the living room, their eyes level.

“So, tell me. What do you want?” 

“To confirm, you are Ivy Falk, contract reporter for The New York World?” 

“Yes.” 

“You recently wrote a story about the Syndicate.” 

“I did, yes.” 

“I work for the Syndicate.” 

Ivy felt as if the air had been knocked out of her. Her sources, her family, herself. They were all in danger. She knew what they were capable of, the horrible things they did to people who didn’t comply, and, more importantly, she knew that they got away with it, due to the number of police officers on Syndicate payroll.

“So. You ARE here to kill me. You don’t want to talk. You’re here to kill me. Well, just get it over with,” her voice cracking. She bit the inside of her lip to stuff down tears. Don’t cry in front of the hit man. Die standing up, Ivy. 

John sighed and buried his head in his hands. This was not how this part was supposed to go, either, not sure when he wrote such an exhaustive narrative of how this job was supposed to occur. John Wick was a killer, though, not an acquirer. He was better at killing than kidnapping. 

He looked around her apartment, noting how homey it felt. Normally, he’d have been gone by now, his work completed, so he never really had a chance to get to know much about his targets. She had books stacked on a shelf next to her bedroom door, a blanket draped over the back of the soft, comfortable couch, the music still playing softly in the background. This was a woman living an otherwise quiet life, who happened to open a box she shouldn’t have. 

“I am not going to kill you. In fact, you may be able to bargain for your life if you expose your sources. I haven’t read it, but as you can imagine, the Syndicate is not happy about your story.” 

Ivy nodded. Megan. She knew she couldn’t ever prove it, but Megan did this. The damn thing had only just been published. That’s why she texted. 

“It...doesn’t matter that much. It’s a Saturday piece. No one reads the paper on Saturday. Or at least they pay me like no one reads the paper on Saturday.” 

John nodded. 

“Regardless of how many people will read it, the Syndicate wants to talk to you. You exposed them.” 

She closed her eyes and began to nod, and John could see tears glimmering on the tips of her eyelashes. He didn't know how many more times he'd have to reiterate that he had no plans to murder her this day, but that probably contributed to what he said next. 

“If you come quietly, we can make a plan. I’ll help you. But...you have to come quietly.” 

“Ok. Ok. I will come with you,” she swallowed hard, wiping her eyes, “I’m supposed to work tonight. Can I please call them and let them know I’m not coming? I’ve never missed a day of work, and they will know something is up if I do,” she said hopefully. 

John thought for a moment. She was right, all the bases needed to be covered. 

“Fine. But you will make the call in front of me.” 

She nodded. 

“Can I get my phone out of my purse? You can hand it to me, it’s right there,” she pointed to the small cabinet next to the door. John got up and turned to get her purse, a small burgundy leather tote. He could smell a faint aroma of a rosy perfume radiating from the inside, enticing him to let his face linger longer than he should. 

He gingerly set it next to her. She pulled her phone out and dialed a number, clearing her throat a number of times so as to sound somewhat normal and turning so her back was to him. 

“Hi, Chris? It’s Ivy. Yeah. I’m...not doing too well,” she stammered. John’s heart beat fast in his chest. Idiot, he thought. Of course she’s going to get him to call the police. He’d have to kill her. He instinctively undid the snap on his holster, touching the butt of his gun. 

“Yeah, I don’t know. I think it’s food poisoning. Yeah, don’t eat there,” she laughed lightly, “So, I’m not coming in tonight. I’m so sorry. I can call Lena if you want me to. You will? Ok. You’re a lifesaver. Ok. Bye.” 

He snapped the gun back into place.

Ivy turned and laughed darkly. She felt unhinged, shaking with a combination of rage and fear and utter sadness at thinking she could outrun these wicked people. John got up from his chair and planted himself next to her on the couch, moving her purse. 

“They won’t hurt you. I promise. Whatever it is, you can make a deal. You will live.” 

Ivy laughed even harder. 

“I know all about the Syndicate...whatever your name is,” she said, almost gleefully, “and because I don’t know who you are, I doubt you can make that promise. I’ll be dead by the end of tonight.” 

John thought back to his retirement. Lovely, quiet retirement. Just for a sweet, stolen moment to get him through this. He rubbed his fingers over the top of what was left of his ring finger, a habit he’d picked up since losing it. She was right. Sokolov would probably kill her. This poor woman was only trying to do her job, he rationalized. His phone vibrated. A text from Sokolov. 

_Where are you?_

“That’s them, isn’t it?” she whispered, “I was just trying to do the right thing. I just wanted to tell the truth, and I wanted people to know what happens in this wretched city,” she slumped to her left, her head barely grazing John’s shoulder. Without even thinking about what he was doing, he pulled her to his chest, stroking her hair, reveling in the bright rosy scent emanating off of her. 

“Ivy. It will be ok,” he whispered, his long fingers gently running along her scalp. She let him hold her, just for a minute, before she realized what was happening and pushed him away.

“Who are you? Casper the friendly hitman?” she asked, her voice quavering.

He chuckled at the thought. 

“Why are you laughing? I’m going to die.” 

“Once again, I don’t think you’re going to die,” he said, “but if you have anything written down about your sources, recordings, notes, anything, you might just be able to guarantee you don’t.” 

Ivy thought about all the people who had reluctantly talked to her. Those she’d chased for weeks for an interview. The anonymous sources, explaining the way money was routed from the Syndicate to the police department, and worst of all, how they used the police department to move illegal goods and services through the city. This was work a veteran reporter would consider their opus, but at the moment, it felt like a death sentence, and her angel of death sat next to her on the sofa, trying to explain to her how to get out of it. 

She sat upright, stood up, and walked to her desk with her purse wiping the tears from her eyes as she moved. She opened it, stowed her laptop and a stack of notebooks she’d used on this project in the main compartment. She pulled on a pair of boots, and putting her bag down, quickly braided her hair into a long plait. 

“Did you want to change out of your wet clothes?” 

“No. Let’s get this over with. Will do you do me a favor?” 

“Go on.” 

“Your name. What’s your name?” 

“John Wick," he picked up her belongings and pointed his head to the door, "We have a long drive ahead of us.” 

She nodded, and turned to leave. 

He walked into the kitchen and grabbed one of the peaches she bought earlier and handed it to her. 

“In case you get hungry.” 

Who _was_ John Wick?


	4. Chapter 4

Ivy decided that if it got really bad, so bad that she couldn’t handle it, she’d beg them kill her. It probably wasn’t going to matter what she said or did, these were people who dealt either in money or in blood, and she had no money to buy her way out. 

John led her to his car, a slick Chevelle SS with white racing stripes down the middle of the hood. He opened the door for her, buckled her seatbelt and then slid into the driver’s seat. 

He drove slower than usual, so as not to harm his passenger. As they drove out of the city and towards the Sokolov compound further upstate, he was having a hard time understanding why he had tender feelings for a woman he just met, but he did know what it was like to feel like you were just doing your job, and for that to mean you put yourself in danger. 

Ivy seemed in a trance, and she tried to ground herself by counting the white lines on the road as they whizzed by, never letting go of her laptop. She didn’t speak the entire way, and John didn’t think it would be a jovial trip, he was surprised she asked no questions. 

As he rounded the final turn and hit the buzzer for the gate attendant, he wished he knew what to say to her. They made the entire 4 hour drive to Port Henry in silence. 

He drove up the long gravel driveway, to the opulent house that Sokolov and his associates used as a headquarters. Hidden enough. Far enough out. If things went south, there weren’t that many places for them to run. He stopped the care before pulling into the semicircle of a driveway right before the door, where he could see several henchmen waiting outside. He pulled his phone out to text Sokolov. 

5 minutes. She’s alive. She’s ready to talk.

Wonderful.

“Ivy. It’s...time.” he said softly. 

She finally turned to look at him for the first time since they left New York, a placid sense of calm acceptance had taken hold of her gaze. 

“What’s your plan?” he asked. 

Ivy mulled her words for a moment. She wasn’t going to cry again, she could feel that, but she had no idea what to say. She guessed that she would expose her sources. For her own wicked life. 

“I will hand everything over. My passwords are on post-its stuck to my computer screen. They will have to suss out the information on their own. Once all those people go missing and turn up dead, they’re going to know it was me. So I won't be saying it out loud.” A twinge of sadness rang through her voice. She’d resigned to talking.

John nodded. He thought he could work with that. He would ask to talk to Sokolov before he spoke to her. Or, he would at least would try to guarantee it was only Sokolov who spoke to Ivy. He didn’t trust anyone else, and he barely trusted Sokolov. 

\---

Sokolov could see everything from the window in his office. He did not expect Ivy Falk to be as beautiful as she was. Tall, with thick brown hair that hung over her shoulder in a rope-like braid, her clothes clung pleasantly to her body. She turned to the side when John spoke to her, and she had the most striking profile. He chuckled lowly. There were a number of trades he could negotiate with her, after all. 

John held his arm out for her, and she walked right by it, jogging up the steps to the front of the house. He laughed out loud as he drank scotch. John Wick, ever the gentlemen, ever the moron. 

The phone on his desk rang. 

“Yes?”

“John Wick is here with the journalist. Mr. Wick is requesting to meet with you alone. Will you see him?” 

Sokolov thought for a moment. Wick probably was going to bargain on her behalf. He was focused, committed and fucking scary, except when a beautiful and clever woman was involved, thinking back to his days as a junior associate when tales were told of the impossible task, which was rumored to be about a woman. If Ivy Falk was able to get the interviews she did, she was not a stupid woman, and she was beautiful. He could see the weakness, like a ripe red apple ready to be plucked and eaten, and Sokolov saw a game to be played. He loved a game. 

“Please, send him in.” 

\---

John deposited Ivy on a tufted settee outside of Sokolov’s office. He told one of his henchmen to look after her while he spoke to Sokolov. Ivy refused water. She clung to her laptop, her knuckles white. She closed her eyes and thought of her life. At the beach with her family. Holding her niece for the first time. Her father’s funeral. Seeing her name in print. The first time she rode the Bonneville. She bit the inside of her mouth to keep from crying. She would never let these goons see how scared she was. She was ready to die, she told herself. It became a mantra. I’m ready to die. I’m ready to die. I did what I could and I’m ready to die. 

\-----

John waited for Sokolov. So much drama and showboating with Russians, he thought. He shifted in his chair. The side door opened and Sokolov came in, arms open.

“John Wick. You did exactly what I told you to do. But where is she?” 

“I wanted to talk to you, Sokolov. She will not name names, but she has all of the collateral you need to do what you want to do. I am asking, as someone who has done everything you’ve ever asked of me, to be merciful. She was just doing her job, and once people who spoke to her start winding up dead, she’ll have nothing.” 

Sokolov balanced his chin on his hands in a childlike gesture that seemed unbecoming to a powerful man. So, Wick was already in love with the bitch. Idiot, he thought. 

“What does collateral mean in this case, Mr. Wick?” 

“Notes, phone numbers, names, her laptop. She is ready to hand it all over.”

Sokolov pushed the call button on his phone. He picked up the receiver. 

“Chernov, can you send Miss Falk in please? Yes. Thank you.” 

Well, he couldn't say he didn't try.

\----

A short fellow in a black jacket and a purple shirt tapped her on the shoulder. 

“Miss you are to come with me.” 

She stood up, knees shaky. She exhaled, and picked up her purse. This was it. The walk to the gallows pole. It didn’t matter what John Wick said, or anyone else for that matter. The man opened oak double doors to reveal an opulent office. Wood paneling, marble sculptures, sumptuous velvet furniture, every frivolous thing you could buy when money was burning a hole in your pocket. She grimaced. 

The man she could only assume was Sokolov, as well as John sat in a small sitting area by the bay window. An intricate oriental rug partitioned off the space from the rest of the wood floors. Sokolov held a hand up, then stood up. 

“Miss Falk. Please, come in,” he motioned for her to sit. 

He walked to the bar. 

“Miss Falk, can I offer you a drink?” 

She didn’t say anything. Unsure how to respond. 

“Uhm. No thank you,” she said slowly and quietly. 

He poured her a scotch anyway. He handed her the heavy bottomed tumbler. 

“You will want this.” 

She sat on one of the velvet club chairs, next to John. Sokolov sat on the leather sofa. 

“So. Miss Falk. You have certainly found yourself in an interesting position, have you not? You know far too much about the Syndicate to go back to the way your life used to be. You have exposed us. Normally,” he breathed, “you would have to die. Painfully. Slowly. And maybe your family, too.” 

Ivy closed her eyes. John noticed her hand gripping the tumbler so hard she thought she would crush it. He took it from her and set it on the cocktail table before them. Ivy didn’t flinch at all.

“But, I believe you will be more useful to me alive,” he said, emptying the scotch into his mouth. 

Ivy made a small noise. She had yet to speak. She had a horrible vision of her being sold into a brothel. Sent to Russia. Who could know? 

“Yes. A woman who can figure out who my inner circle is is not a stupid one. I want to retain you as a researcher. As you might imagine, a man in my role has a lot of enemies. Do you follow me so far, Miss Falk?” 

Ivy nodded. John’s eyes were glued to her. He handed her the scotch and she threw it back like it was water. 

“Refill? I understand.” 

Sokolov snapped his fingers and a butler she didn’t even notice sidled up next to her and filled her glass again. 

“My apologies, do you care for ice?” 

She shook her head. 

“As I was saying, what I am proposing is you pretend that none of this ever happened. However, you will begin to investigate the other criminal operations in this city. My ...open files, if you will. I know what I know, but I want to know what you can find out. I will warn you. They’re puzzling” he listed off. 

“Sokolov, that’s suicide. She’ll be killed by someone else. Someone else will figure it out, trace it back to her, and kill her.

Sokolov laughed. This was the best part. 

“No she will not, because you are now her point of contact, Mr. Wick.” 

To this point, Ivy had said nothing. She hoped she could hand over her bag and leave, or, she thought lamely, she'd die, but why would she think this would be simple? . 

“No, see --” 

“Yes you will. Because you will die if he is not. You can work out whatever arrangement you want, but John Wick is your keeper. John, you are to keep tabs on her 24 hours a day unless you are working on a job. I cannot allow assets to be compromised or killed.” 

Not sure what else she could say or do, for the moment, Ivy shut her mouth. She’d figured out how to crack the Syndicate, what could escape the watch of one man be? 

“I will.”

An icy tension filled the room, until Sokolov clapped his hands. 

“Splendid. Bruno! Champagne!” 

The butler returned not 30 seconds later with champagne and champagne flutes. He uncorked it, filled each glass, and handed one to Sokolov, John and Ivy. 

“To new business!” shouted Sokolov. He raised his glass. John looked at Ivy and motioned for her to hold up her glass. They drank, and Sokolov turned to Ivy. 

“I will begin sending you all the information I have on each open file, either electronically or by messenger service. John will escort you wherever you need to go, and act on your findings if they would strengthen the Syndicate. Do you hear me, Mr. Wick?” 

John nodded, trying to figure out how best to keep tabs on a woman, so far, seemed to hate him all day every single day. Ivy took her stuff out of her purse and tried to hand it to Sokolov. 

“Is...this not also what you want?” 

Sokolov laughed, putting his hands up. 

“No, my dear. That will serve as a harbinger of what you did. To help you remember why you come to work for Sokolov and the Syndicate.” 

Ivy’s stomach lurched. 

“Now, please, finish your drinks. John, you and I will talk tomorrow, and Miss Falk, John will give you the details of your first assignment. “ Sokolov stood up, and walked over to his desk. With a key he kept in his breast pocket, he unlocked a drawer and pulled out an iPhone and a new laptop, still in their boxes. He motioned to Ivy, and she walked over. 

“You are to use these. This way, my team can keep an eye on you. You may contact family and friends, but if you tell anyone at all what you are up to, you will die at the hands of Mr. Wick, who will make a lasting impression on you before you go. Now, I imagine you are very tired, as it has gotten very late, so please, Mr. Wick, take her home and let her sleep.” 

She nodded, and he bowed a bit before leaving the room. So formal for someone so cruel, thought Ivy. He exited, and she finished her champaign, it sitting like hot acid in her stomach, and she started blankly at the wall for a few minutes before John broke the silence. 

“Ivy. I’m sorry.” 

John knew that being beholden to the Syndicate could be considered worse than death. He knew she would need time to process this, which he wasn’t sure how she could do that with him being assigned as her...well...her babysitter. 

\---

Ivy would never be able to explain how she managed to stand up, pick up her bag, put one foot in front of the other, and walk out of Sokolov’s house without crying. But she did. John kept trying to help her down the stairs, help her to the car, help her with her bag until she just couldn’t take it. 

“STOP IT! I know I am stuck with you, but I am not an invalid. I don’t want your help.” she shouted, ripping open the car door and tossing her stuff inside. She sat down in a bit of a huff, embarrassed that she'd lost control. 

John didn’t retaliate. One of Sokolov’s foot soldiers tapped him on the shoulder and handed him a thick vellum envelope. He stashed it in his pocket and got them back on the highway. 

Her body felt oddly loose, having survived a confrontation with the Sokolov. A blessing and a curse. Alive, but shackled. 

She started dead ahead the whole way back to her apartment. Neither of them said a word. 8 hours of driving and no conversation. When they pulled up to her building, and she spoke first. 

“So. How do we do this?”

“What do you mean?” 

“If you’re meant to keep an eye on me all the time, how do we do that? Do you set up surveillance equipment? Cameras? How?” 

John had been thinking of that. He had an idea but he knew she wasn't going to like it. 

“I was thinking you come live with me. I’m close to the city for you to do your interviews and other legwork. You’d have both a bedroom and an office for you to work in. It’d almost be like your apartment,” he said with a fake sense of cheerfulness he knew she’d see right through. 

Ivy scoffed. Absolutely not. 

“No. That’s ridiculous. How do I know that Sokolov hasn’t told you to kill me the moment you lure me to your house? I’m not doing that.” 

“You don’t. You’ll have to trust me.” 

Ivy weighed her options. Either it was the two of them in her one bedroom apartment, or it was the two of them in what sounded like John’s not so small house. She bit her lip. 

“Fine.” 

He put the car into park and turned the engine off, “Now, go get your clothes. We’ll work out everything else later.”


	5. Chapter 5

As Ivy packed, John wandered around her apartment. She threw a very old suitcase onto her unkempt bed. That would never do at home, he thought, reminding himself to tell Doris the housekeeper that she’d have an extra room to clean every day. She piled together pajamas, underwear, a jacket, pants, and tops into the suitcase, grabbing toiletries, books and her computer charger as well. She excused herself to use the bathroom and he looked at books she picked. Wuthering Heights. Proust. A sci-fi novel. A book about salt. She must read quickly, he thought, thinking of his own bookshelves and how much she’d like them. 

She came back into her bedroom, a coffee mug in hand. Big Hug Mug, it said. He smiled slightly. She also had a stash of notebooks, an envelope of cash, and a particular pen she seemed to be fond of. She wrapped the mug in a grubby t shirt and put it into the suitcase. 

She flipped the suitcase shut and zipped. She had a tote with everything else, and in one final act, folded the orange and yellow quilt on her bed in half and then rolled it. John tried to control his reaction to the possibility of her bringing a ratty bed covering into his home. John preferred his linens very clean, very white, and very not stitched together with several different colors of thread. She turned off the lights. 

“Let’s get this over with,” she sulked. John grabbed the rest of the peaches from her little fruit bowl on the window sill, and put them in her tote. She halted at the added weight to her bag. 

“For later,” he said, “you might get hungry.” 

\---

They drove east, further onto the island, leaving the city behind. It was as if they’d been handcuffed. This meant a lot of killing of rival criminal enterprises for John, and a lot of scary moments with dangerous people for Ivy. John spoke first. 

“I...think you’ll like my home. It’s in a wooded area. It’s got lots of light. You’re welcome to go wherever you want, and I’ll be happy to take you wherever you need to go,” he said, noting to double check the safe that housed his guns when he had a moment. 

She didn’t say anything. 

“It’ll be ok.” 

Nothing. She just started out the window, her head propped on her fist. He realized he probably needed to be gentle with her. Her entire world had just crumbled. He was surprised when she spoke. 

“How am I going to pay my bills?” 

“What?” 

“You heard me, how will I pay my bills? I can’t survive without the income from the bar, and I am not going to lose my apartment.” 

His heart broke a bit. Silly girl, thinking she’d be able to get out at some point. He felt sorry for her. 

“You’ll be paid. Sokolov said $10,000 for every completed research dossier.” 

Ivy swooned at the numbers. That was ...a lot of money. She could pay her loans off by the end of the year. If she lived, she thought darkly. Forcing herself to regain her composure, she turned to look at John. 

“Ok, well. Good.”

He turned off the highway onto a small frontage road and drove through the main drag in Oyster Bay. She felt the tears welling up again. She was not going to cry in front of him again. Not again. She steeled herself as he turned off the barely lit road onto a gravel driveway. Here we go, she thought, the notion that he might still kill her fresh in her mind. 

\---

John heard her gasp when the house came into full view. Glass, steele, greenery, it was stunning. He loved his house, despite the ghosts of a life he’d never get back milling about constantly. He pulled in the garage, and turned the car off. He got out and took her suitcase from the trunk. He opened the passenger door. 

“Ivy, it’s time to go inside. I will show you your room.” 

Ivy would rather die than admit it, but him saying her name in his buttery, low voice made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. She kind of liked it, she thought, as she got out of the car the tote and her purse wrapped around her wrist, quilt under her arm. He opened the door and flicked on a light. 

“So here is the kitchen. Please help yourself to whatever you want. The housekeeper, Doris comes early in the mornings and does the shopping on Tuesdays, so if there is anything you want or need, please write it down for her before then.” 

He turned a corner, Ivy still in tow. 

“Please feel free to think of the space as yours. I will give you an office and a bedroom, but the space elsewhere is obviously for your use too.”

Ivy noted how comfortably inviting the couches looked. John had nice taste, she thought. Everything was soft and neutral, and very very clean. That might be a bit of a learning curve for her. 

They rounded another corner and went up the stairs.

“This will be your room,” he switched on a lamp, revealing a slick modern bedroom with a comfortable bed adorned with crisp white linens and an enormous walnut dresser that she could never dream of filling up with her clothes. She noted the view, a full glass window of the wooded area behind his property. He dropped the suitcase next to the bed. 

“Let me show you the office before you unpack. This way,” he beckoned. Ivy put her purse on the bed and followed him. 

“Bathroom,” he pointed to the left “and here’s your office.” 

The office had a half dozen ceiling bookshelves lining the walls, and they were overflowing. 

“You can read any of them, just be gentle with the antique books,” he gestured to a section filled with volumes of old, cloth bound books. 

There was a modern desk, a very comfortable looking chair, and a landline. She gingerly ran her fingers over the books on the shelf and sighed. She turned, put her tote bag full of notebooks and both laptops on the desk, and wondered why the room was vacant at all.

“Do hitmen not need to send emails?” she asked, trying to lighten the mood. 

John laughed. No, they don’t. He stepped toward her. 

“Not really. This was my wife’s office. I do much of my work in the basement, and...uh outside of the home. This room has since become my library. I don’t spend much time here, so it makes sense to let you use it.” 

Wife, huh? Did he kill her? She didn’t ask, but she had a feeling her thought was painted all over her face. 

“She died. Cancer” 

“I’m sorry.” 

He shrugged. So it goes. 

“It was a long time ago. That about does it for the tour.” 

Ivy couldn’t hold it together anymore. She began to shake, angry tears she’d been stuffing down since Sokolov’s erupted, her shoulders and knees feeling weak. She crumpled to the floor, squatting and burying her face in her hands. John froze. She was very adamant that he wasn’t to go near her, but he couldn’t just leave her there. 

“Ivy, it’s going to be ok.” 

“no it isn’t,” she wailed, “I’ve lost everything.”

John knew that regardless of how careful she’d been, it all ended like this. Her in Helen’s office, awaiting instruction from a Russian mob boss. Or dead. But still, he felt for her. He knew a little bit about losing everything, he thought as Ivy shook with grief under his hand. He plopped to the floor. He didn’t touch her, but he remembered in his own grief that simply not being alone made a difference. He might be a husk of a human, but he could occupy the empty space next to her. They sat there together while Ivy wept for the past. Just yesterday, she was barely making it, but she was happy. She had freedom. Now, like a little pet, she belonged to a mob boss, who really, she remembered, could do whatever he wanted to her, and his attack dog was her keeper. 

This was messed up, she thought. She mopped her face with her sweatshirt, refusing the handkerchief John had produced. 

She stood up, steadied herself on her feet, and told John that she was incredibly tired, and that she wanted to take her contacts out and go to bed. Nodding, he stood as well and he corralled her out of the office. 

“Goodnight, Ivy. Please find me if you need something,” he said to her in the hallway. 

Ivy gave a quick jerky wave, and went into the bathroom, abruptly closing the door. She weighed her options, while brushing her teeth. Too deep in the woods totally makes ever get out alive. Or maybe not. She didn’t really know. Her motorcycle was gone, at least for now, and she wasn’t Rambo. What was she going to do? She figured, spitting the toothpaste into the sink, that she had plenty of time. She splashed water on her face and put her glasses on, then changed into a black pair of shorts and a white tank top, and rebraided her hair so it would be snug while she slept. 

She tossed the mountain of throw pillows to the floor and unrolled her quilt. Her grandmother had made it for her when she was born, and it had the divine quilaity of cotton that had been periodically washed for 30 years. 

She settled in, not wanting to admit to how comfortable and soft everything was. Much of John’s demeanor would have you believe that he slept on the ground with a stone pillow, so his choice in bedding was a bit of a surprise. She fell asleep surprisingly easily. 

\-----

John, however, couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t sleep at all knowing that just a few hundred feet away someone else was here. No one else had slept in this house with him since Helen. He grabbed his phone off the bedside table, seeing a text from Sokolov: 

Did you make it back?

Yes. She is asleep.

Very good. The details of her first assignment are in that envelope. 

The blankets suddenly felt stifling, despite the fact that he kept it cool in his house. The cold always made him feel more alert, and since he was always a man on high alert, he preferred the cold. Standing up out of his bed, he stretched and stood in front of the mirror, the air conditioning chilling the sweat he’d accumulated during his fitful sleep. He did what he always did when he couldn’t sleep: He counted his scars to help him remember. As penance, and as a hypnotic activity to bring his heart rate back down to normal. He needed to remember, to quiet his mind. 

\---

Ivy awoke the next morning to the smell of coffee. Throwing the duvet back, she put on black t shirt and pants and put in her contact lenses, carelessly shoving her glasses up on top of her head. 

John sat at the island, reading a book. He had folded the cover back and was holding it with one hand, his other hand holding a piece of toast smothered in Nutella.

He heard her before he saw her. 

“You must be hungry,” he said without turning around. He got up, putting the book down and dropping the toast to his plate with a crispy clatter. He turned and motioned for her to sit down. John, you have to think of something else other than ‘you must be hungry’ to say to her. She lives here now. He carried on anyway. 

“What would you like to eat? I have cereal, toast, eggs, I cut those peaches up, or I can make pancakes, too.” he seemed a little flustered. Ivy didn’t respond right away. 

“You don’t need to do anything for me, John. I know my way around a kitchen.” 

He noticed her glasses were still on top of her head. He reached up and plucked them out of her hair, and set them on the counter. Ivy was taken aback by the intimate gesture. He slid the envelope to her. 

“Your first job, Sherlock,” he said. 

“Thanks.”

Ivy decided wasn’t very hungry, but she did want coffee. She opened cabinets at random, feeling John’s eyes boring into her as he sat lamely in the kitchen. 

“Third one, bottom shelf,” he muttered. 

She grabbed a coffee cup and John filled it. He simply didn’t know how to function with someone else in his home. He had a routine. He liked the routine, and his instinct was to hover around the person who was disrupting his routine. He knew he needed to stop, to relax, and let her do her job and leave her alone, but he felt so tightly wound that he thought smothering her with attention would be the best way to react to this unwanted development. 

She breathed in the steam of fresh coffee deeply, happy that at least there was coffee to look forward to. She took a long sip and made satisfied sound. John’s skin prickled into goosebumps. How was he going to get through this? It would be forever, her in his space, waltzing down the stairs like feral cat, groaning from the satisfaction of coffee. Maybe one of them would die, he thought hopefully, thinking he’d prefer it to be him at this point. 

“Thanks for the coffee.” 

She took the envelope and turned to go back to her room, and John followed her with his eyes, mesmerized by the way her body glided back up the stairs and into her bedroom, where she not-so-quietly shut the door. 

John thought he ought not be surprised by that reaction, but he was still a little hurt. You dummy, he thought, she’s stuck here. Well, Sokolov is the captor. You’re the muscle. He wondered what their interactions would be like if they’d met under normal circumstances, reminding himself that she was probably scared of him. She wouldn’t admit it, but John knew. He’d seen fear in the eyes of hundreds of people before he killed them. He and fear were close.

\---  
Ivy settled into the leather desk chair and opened the envelope. Inside were a few photographs of a woman. An older woman, she wasn’t sure who yet. She was wealthy, her coat trimmed with real fur, and enormous diamond earrings hanging off each ear. She had kind eyes and a pointy chin. 

Ivy laid the photos on her desk. There was a handwritten note with the photos. 

_This is my wife, Vera. I want to know with whom she is having an affair. The only thing I know is that he is an investment banker and his face in profile is in the second photo. I trust you will be discreet._

_-S_

This was more than she had bargained for. This wasn’t connecting the dots between murders or whatever she’d built this up to be in her head. This was a dangerous man’s marriage she was dealing with. Plus, she got the sense that Sokolov wasn’t the most faithful guy. She looked at the photos again. Vera was smiling in all of them. She looked hopeful. Happy. She felt a pang of remorse for what she was about to unravel.

She sighed and opened her laptop. She had to start somewhere, and she couldn’t fuck this up. 

\--

John walked to the beach. That would be a good way to kill some time until Sokolov put him back on a contract, he thought. He didn’t have much else to occupy him until then, and Ivy was just...sitting there, upstairs, working. 

John wasn’t much of a swimmer. He never had a chance to learn until he was in the military, where he then HAD to learn. It wasn’t a leisure activity to him, but he thought he was lucky to live in a place with a beautiful shore, and the vastness of the ocean calmed him. He’d sacrificed a lot to be able to walk for miles along the shore, so he did it as often as he could.

Over the course of his career, he’d been around, introduced, and courted by many beautiful women. He’d had every opportunity to meet someone else after Helen passed. It had been...what, 5 years? Being alone felt more normal than being married. He could barely remember who that person was.

It had to be that it was new. They’d establish a working relationship soon enough. But. There was something else he didn’t want to admit, and he tested out his thought as he squished sand between his toes. He wanted her to pay attention to him. He wanted to be seen by her. 

He’d made his way almost all the way around the small harbor area, and he figured he should turn back before it got dark. He slipped his shoes back on and headed back toward the house. She was a business associate, he concluded. You don’t date people at work. 

—-  
Ivy was getting closer. She had made a spreadsheet of thin-looking, brown haired investment bankers living in New York who had graduated college between 1975 and 1980. No one in the syndicate had a LinkedIn profile and she doubted there was some kind of nefarious criminal social networking site, so making assumptions based on the degree of connection wasn’t going to work. She also concluded this guy either knew who Vera was and didn’t care, thus was probably on Syndicate payroll, or he really didn’t. She didn’t know which was worse for this guy. 

Her second route was to try and figure out where the photo was taken and maybe he could ask the people who worked there if they knew him. She heard John come back in. She’d been working for hours, and she thought he might know something about Vera that could point her in the right direction. 

Stuffing the photos back into the envelope, she returned downstairs, where John had started to cook dinner. 

“Um. Hey. Do you have a second?”

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothings wrong. Just...I need to know if I’m spinning my wheels here.”

She laid the photos out on the marble countertop and turned on the much brighter overhead light. 

“Two things: do you know who this man is, and if not, where do you think these photos were taken?”

John was quiet. Vera. So this was where she’d ended up. 

He had grown up with Vera. Both plucked from the streets, no parents, no prospects, and brought to New York, to the Director. Vera had been, in their youth, an exquisite ballerina. She danced with emotion, heartbreak, vulnerability that none of the other young dancers seemed to be able to grasp. She was the Director’s prized pupil. She might have even had a chance to dance professionally, he could hear her saying to him as they ate their daily allotment of buckwheat porridge. Her eyes where hopeful. They looked the same in the photo. 

When Vera had heard he was leaving, he remembered she ran to their residence hall, hoping to catch him before he left, her pointe shoes destroyed from the concrete outside. She’d get in trouble for that, and she told him she was glad to have met him. Wait, Jardani, she said, and she went to her dorm, coming back with a book of Russian folk tales they’d both enjoyed as children. Here, take it. Thank you for being kind to me. He embraced her for a minute, then she had to get back to rehearsal. 

The book was upstairs, burning like a beacon in his mind’s eye. John didn’t particularly want to be remembering this at this moment. 

If he recalled correctly, a debilitating injury had smothered Vera’s chances at dancing professionally in its infancy. He’d moved on to the military at that point. He hadn’t thought of Vera in years, until confronted with her photo in his own kitchen. He wasn’t going to open that door with Ivy, though. He finally responded.

“Well. I know this is Vera Sokolova, and this looks like it might be somewhere Manhattan. I see an apostrophe and an ‘s’ on the window, and half of an address, but nothing much else in terms of a location. Is...this what he assigned you?”

She nodded. 

“He thinks she’s having an affair. He gave me photos and...that’s about it.”

He picked one up to examine it closer. He hoped she wasn’t. 

“I know she sits on the board of the New York Ballet Company, so she could just be meeting someone connected to that. Could just be a friendly meeting.”

“See, I don’t know. Look at her smile. She seems elated almost. That’s a woman in love.”

He glanced at her quickly, then back at the photo. She had a point. She looked at ease with this handsome stranger. He gingerly put it back down on the counter, turning back to the celery he was dicing before she came downstairs. 

“I really don’t know, Ivy.”

He reasoned that he wasn’t withholding because he didn’t want to help. He just didn’t want her to know about...him. That part of his life. Ivy sensed she’d upset him. 

“I’m sorry. For bugging you.” 

She quietly gathered what she’d brought with her. She wasn’t upset, just a little deflated, as she turned to go up the stairs. 

“Ivy, wait.”

She turned. 

“Dinner is in an hour.”

“Oh. Ok.”

But Ivy was on the hunt.

—-

It took her 24 hours of nonstop work, but she narrowed it down to 3 people. Using the information she pulled from the ballet company’s board page, she analyzed the social media connections between all of them and found 3 men who fit the description and age she thought she might be looking for. 

John kept trying to get her to eat and sleep, but she ignored him, until he finally gave up. When she came out of the office again, she asked John to get in contact with Sokolov. She’d figured it out. 

She’d discovered additional photos of Vera and David Bradley buried in the blog of the ballet company. Slightly upset she didn’t start by asking John first, and jumping right to making a little database for herself, she matched the profile shot. She sighed deeply when she did. Feeling really guilty that she was about to stampede through Vera’s personal life, she put all her findings in DropBox and sent the link to Sokolov.

She looked at her phone, noting the time. It was late, and she was hungry. Making her way downstairs, she tried to avoid turning on too many lights. She didn’t want to disturb John if he was already asleep. She noticed the basement door was open, a dim light shining up the stairs, and she figured he must be burning the midnight oil, too. 

Quietly, she opened cabinets, looking for cereal or oatmeal. Something she could prepare easily without making much of a mess. 

“I was wondering when you’d come back down.” 

Ivy dropped the cereal box she’d just discovered, flakes skittering across the slate floors.

“Shit!” She muttered quietly. “Sorry, I didn’t realize that you’d be here. I thought you were in your office.”

“I was. Unfortunately, I am very good at figuring out when someone is moving about my house.” 

“I’m done. With my work. I’m hungry. Sorry.” 

She bent to start pushing the cereal into a pile so she could scoop it up and throw it away. 

“No no no,” he sighed. He was being a terrible host. “It’s not a problem Ivy. I wanted to see how you were doing. Do you...always do this?” 

She looked up at him, “do what?” 

“Shut everything else out when you’re working.”

“Yeah, I guess I do.” She shrugged. 

“Hmm.” 

His head was swimming. Focus. Commitment. 

“Do you have a dustpan or something?”

“Oh. Yeah. Hold on.” 

He handed it to her, and she finished cleaning up while he stood there lamely, trying to understand this person who had the same qualities he did, which he still couldn’t decide if they were good or not. Obsession was dangerous. Productive sometimes. But on the whole, dangerous. 

Ivy poured a bowl of cereal and sat at the island. 

“Well, I sent the guy’s name to Sokolov. I expect you’ll have some work to do soon.” 

John shook his head “no, Sokolov will want to handle that one on his own.” He didn’t know that, he just knew he wouldn’t bid on that contract. Let someone else ruin his childhood friend’s life. 

“Mmm. What will happen to Vera?” 

“They’ll probably never talk about it. Sokolov will just take him away and her heart will be broken. Hell lord it over her.”

“That’s sad,” Ivy said, scooping cereal into her mouth. 

“We all make choices.”

“Yeah, but we all also deserve to be with someone who loves us. I don’t get the sense that Sokolov is the most devoted partner.” 

John thought back to the wretched places he’d been to take meetings with Sokolov. Young women with sunken eyes and protruding bones draped over the furniture, proposing things John had no interest in doing with someone he didn’t love. 

“He isn’t.”

“Poor Vera.” 

He nodded, noticing that Ivy finished her food, he took her dish, uncomfortable silence creeping in. Poor Vera indeed.

“Well, I should go to bed.”

“Goodnight, Ivy.”

——  
The last few days of August going into Labor Day were stifling, and Ivy poured over her next assignment with her feet lazily dangling in John’s pool, wearing a pair of cutoffs and a thin white tank top. John thought he saw some tattoos on her shoulders, but didn’t ask. He left her alone to do her work, only having curt discussions about coffee and the occasional question about Syndicate hierarchy.

Ivy was getting used to having her laundry done every day, her meals prepared for her. Maybe this wasn’t so bad. She tried to remember that she didn’t really have any freedom though. She took a swig from the iced tea next to her. Her mind drifted as she thumbed through a police report. She realized she hadn’t seen much of John the past few days, and wondered what he was getting up to in the basement, if that was even where he’d been hiding. 

A soft breeze picked up, and a sense of relief washed over her as she underlined the missing piece to what she’d been working on. Poor bastard. Sokolov said he didn’t intend to kill this person. Allegedly. None of the work she’d done so far had led to a death. Or at least not one John had been assigned to. That she knew of. 

—-

What John was up to was nothing. He’d not been offered any work, and by god, he had to do something. 

He wasn’t sleeping, and he phoned the syndicate contact for some sleeping pills, which he did need to go pick up. He’d taken the book of Russian folk tales down from the Ivy’s office and opened it for the first time in almost 30 years. 

Had it really been that long? The binding cracked and crumbled when he opened it. He’d have to fix it. He just needed to know if he could leave Ivy for a few hours while he went to buy some supplies to restore the book to its former glory. 

Ivy had asked several times about her motorcycle. He figured he could get her to agree to cooperate and stay put if he told her he was going to get it. 

He walked out to the patio and saw her head bent over a file folder, her sunglasses on her head, her shapely legs lazily swirling at the side of the pool. The sun came back in full force after some cloud cover and she pushed her glasses down. 

John hated weather like this. He could feel his hair starting to curl up on the ends, sweat pouring into his clothes upon going outside. The grip of August, he called it. 

He approached her. 

“Hey John,” she closed the folder and looked over her sunglasses, “hot one, huh?” 

“Ivy. I’m going to go get your bike. I’ll be back in a few hours. Don’t—“

“I know. I won’t.” 

“Ok. Call me if you—“

She cut him off again, “I’ll be fine.”

She pushed her glasses up again, and resumed her work. John felt...dismissed, but had to keep reminding himself that her curt responses probably had more to do with lack of trust than annoyance. She didn’t know anything about him. Other than the worst parts of his life. He spun on his heel and called a car to take him to her bike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I realized I had some repeated text in the last two posts I made. I’ve deleted it and we’re back on track. Thanks for reading. 😃


	6. Chapter 6

The car pulled up to the Broken Arrow, and John pulled Ivy’s keys out of his pocket. He put her helmet on, the scent of her perfume and sweat causing a not unpleasant twitch in his pants, before he opened the clutch and drove. 

It had been 2 weeks since their first meeting, and John hoped Ivy had wrapped up the loose ends of her old life. She was keeping her apartment, though he didn’t understand why. No one leaves the Syndicate. Or maybe it was that he didn’t want her to leave. 

In reality, Ivy quit her job at the bar, saying she had to go home to take care of her mother, and the Ukrainian called her and asked if she needed money. She refused, of course, but felt bad that she’d lied to him. 

John made his way to the Syndicate appointed doctor, and picked up a sizable orange bottle of sleeping pills. The nurse gave him a meaningful look as she handed them over. 

“Be careful with these,” she warned.   
Giving her a nod, he left, stowing them in topbox and walking over to the stationary store he’d looked up before he’d left. John didn’t have much of a use for the internet, but he was thankful it existed as he walked in, the clerk putting down a book and asking him what he needed. He guided him to bookbinding supplies, and john stocked up. It had been a while since he’d worked on any of this, and his stores were low. He paid, and got on the road back to Oyster Bay. Just in time to try and coax Ivy to eat dinner. He rolled his eyes. In addition to being beautiful and clever, Ivy was truly miserable at taking care of herself when she was on the hunt. John figured that looking out for her when she was working, per Sokolov’s instruction, included insisting she consume something other than coffee and strawberry Twizzlers. 

When he thought about it, Ivy reminded him of a fox. Not in the 70s pick up line way, but he remembered being on patrol in Bosnia one winter when he was in the military. He’d seen the fox milling about their base on occasion, and he and the other soldiers were sort of charmed by its presence. During his watch, the fox would often hunt, diving head first into the snow to pull up a mouse or mole. That was Ivy with work from Sokolov. 

He smiled. His little fox. 

\--

Visitors when your host is gone are never good. They’re even more unwanted when they’re the scorned wife of your incredibly dangerous and hard to read boss. 

Vera Sokolova was not the type of woman who made waves. The one time she did, she ended up shattering her femur in two places. And, wanting to just be taken care of, she agreed to Sokolov. He might have loved her at one point, but he never let her forget that she was just trash that had been swept into New York, and he’d plucked her from the heap. 

Being married to someone in organized crime was easy, because she never thought she actually cared for him. They married. They had children. And for the most part, they lived separate lives. 

When she met David, though, she felt like she came to life. She didn’t know how Sokolov took the photos, or how he knew, or how that little bitch figured it out, but David was either dead or intimidated out of ever speaking to her again, and Vera wanted to have it out with the woman who put him there. She tried as hard as she could to stay away from whatever business Sokolov conducted in the compound upsate. IN fact, she stayed away from the compound, preferring their Manhattan townhouse. But this couldn’t be ignored, and a few well-placed phone calls later, Ivy Falk was on her radar. 

She ordered her driver to take her to Oyster Bay. To meet this Ivy Falk who has discovered her secret. 

___

Ivy had finally gone inside, fighting the urge to take a nap, drunk on sun and needing to cool off a bit. She changed her clothes and went up to her office when she heard an eager knock on the front door. 

Thinking it might be a messenger, Ivy opened the door. 

Vera Sokolova was on the other end of the doorway. Ivy was dumbfounded, not sure what to do next. 

“You must be Ivy.” 

She nodded, still not sure if she sould speak. 

“Very good. May I come in, Ivy?” 

She was pretty sure this was against the rules, but she also wasnt totally sure what the rules were. She only knew that she couldn’t go anywhere without talking to John. 

“Uhhhhh, sure?” 

Vera was smaller than Ivy imagined she would be. Impeccably dressed in a white linen shirtdress and tan blazer, her cream leather handbag was heavy and expensive, her hair was smooth and freshly cut, not a drop of visible sweat on her at all , and she was wearing the earrings Ivy had seen in the photos. Ivy, standing next to Vera, despite their age difference, felt fat and tacky. Like an english sheepdog standing next to an italian greyhound. Ivy looked down at her leggings and used-to-be-white t shirt, a threadbare flannel wrapped around her waist. She felt underdressed, and stepped aside to let Vera pass.

“C-can I get you something to drink?” 

“Oh no. I don’t plan on staying long.”  
\---

John wasn’t sure what the Lincoln parked in his driveway meant, but he wasn’t going to find out without protection. He drove the motorcycle to the side entrance, and went in through the external garage door, grabbing the pistol he kept in the toolbox, and he quietly opened the door. He heard two women talking, one was obviously Ivy, but the other he only vaguely knew. From a past life. 

He sighed. Sokolov must have acted on Ivy’s findings. Vera didn’t sound angry, just sad and confused. He opened the door from the mud room and walked to the foyer. 

“Ivy. Vera.” He nodded at both of them. 

“I had heard she was shacked up with one of my husband’s associates. I didn’t think it would be you,” Vera said matter of factory. 

He locked eyes with her. He took a chance that ivy didn’t know Russian and spoke. 

“Vera. I wasn’t expecting you. I’m trusting you to be discreet about the past. What can I help you with today?” 

Vera brushed her hair to one side. She responded in Russian.

“John. It has been a long time. I’ve heard stories of you, the Baba Yaga. But don’t you remember, the Baba Yaga is a woman?”

He smiled. Maybe this could be a friendly visit.

“Do you fuck her, John? Is that what my husband has given to you?” 

Maybe not. 

“No. Sokolov asked me to keep an eye on her. He is using her as a researcher. She’ll be safest here.”

Vera’s expression was neutral. She stepped forward. 

“She ruined my life.” 

“No. Your husband ruined your life. Don’t come to her for your pound of flesh.”

Vera’s facade cracked and she fell apart. John looked up at Ivy, then reached for Vera and held her to his chest. Ivy ran to the kitchen grabbing a glass of water, and Kleenex. When she came back, John has put her on the couch. Ivy dumbly handed over the water and tissues, and Vera took the tissue.

John understood that humans have emotions. Certainly. Fear, passion, lust, hope. He had the hardest time with sadness though. It usually can’t be killed away, or shot away, or beaten away. Sadness just sat with you. 

Ivy cleared her throat. 

“I...don’t know what’s happening here, but...ah...Vera I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

John looked up at her and shooed her away, and she figured he was probably right. Probably best to go. She sat on her bed, on edge, and waited trying to hear the conversation going on downstairs.

—

Vera and John reminisced about the past. It had been so long since they’d been able to talk. They’d seen each other in passing, but were never able to speak. 

John wanted to tell her he would find out what happened to David, but he didn’t think that was smart. It was hard to serve two masters, to remember what was happening. The best he could do was listen.

He told Vera about Helen. His retirement. See, she said, us...we need love, Jardani. 

The uncomfortable question in the room, of course, was what should be done about Ivy. Vera didn’t want vengeance, and she didn’t want to hurt Ivy. She wanted to know who stabbed her in the back. John explained none of the work she did was a choice. Ivy was playing for her life. Playing for keeps. 

Vera understood. 

“Do you think of her that way?” 

“How could I? I’m trying to keep her alive. There’s no way.”

“She’s beautiful. A little unpolished, wild maybe. You need a wife Jardani. Why not her?”

“Because I’m not going to coerce her into being with me under the premise of safety. I want anyone with me to love me.”

“You were always a romantic. I am sorry. For stepping in like this. My absence isn’t going to go unnoticed for much longer. Will you call her down?”

He nodded, and walked to her room. 

“Ivy, Vera is leaving. Will you come bid her farewell?”

—-

Ivy held her breath as she went down the stairs. 

“Ivy. Thank you for your hospitality and your candor. I hope I never see you again, to be frank.”

Ivy raised her eyebrows, but understood where she was coming from. 

“John. As always, a pleasure. Take care.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for blood. I am not a physician, so I don't know what happens when people pass out or how long it takes them to come back to. 
> 
> Your comments are so kind!

He left her alone the next day, trying to distract himself by reading on the couch, but he couldn’t focus at all. The sleeping pills weren’t helping, and the words “you need a wife Jardani” were ringing in his ears. No he didn’t. He wasn’t sure who he was reassuring though. John Wick was fucking exhausted. 

After Vera had left, things got complicated. John was upset that she opened the door, more angry at himself for having left the property in the first place. Ivy wanted to know if she should expect more visitors as she went about her work. Kill me now, John, if that’s the case she shouted. They both went to bed angry and hungry. 

He did have to talk to her at some point. A manila envelope arrived at the front door not long after she came down for her daily allotment of coffee, handed to him wordlessly by a messenger. A not-so-subtle reminder that Sokolov knew where he lived. Sokolov told him he’d been very impressed with Ivy’s work so far, and this one was a bit higher stakes than the last few. John scoffed, thinking about Vera. Guess that explained Sokolov’s priorities, he thought. 

He took the envelope off the coffee table where he'd tossed it and opened it. A thick green file folder was inside, along with a USB stick taped to the inside. Ivy’s next assignment. He thought he ought to get this over with, so she could go back to feeling indifferent about him and bounded up the stairs to her room. 

He knocked. No answer. 

“The new materials from Sokolov are here,” he called. 

Still no answer. He knocked again. Ivy had been curt, almost clinical in their conversations so far, but she wasn’t rude. She had that midwestern sense of obligatory politeness to her, which was very different from his own upbringing, and that set of manners usually meant she would have at least responded to him. 

“Ivy, I’m coming in.” 

He opened the door to find that she wasn't there. Her stuff still there, but the dirty motorcycle boots she’d worn the first night in the house were gone. So was her envelope of cash she'd left on the nightstand. He looked around the room to try and figure out how she did it. There were no windows in the bedroom that opened large enough for her to get through, and he would have heard one break.

Thinking he misread the situation, he went to the office. Everything was the same as it had been the night before, nothing disturbed. She was gone. 

Finally, he checked the en suite bathroom. There it was. The window in the shower. He poked his head out the opening and saw the screen and the glass below. A bold move, little fox, he thought to himself, the six foot drop to the ground coming to mind. He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He didn’t even have to look to know it was Sokolov. 

_Do you have the materials?_

_Yes._

_Has she begun working?_

_No, she’s not feeling well._

_Understood. Get her to work before tomorrow. Time, and I can’t stress this enough, is of the essence._

_Got it._

He sighed, frustrated. You stupid girl, he thought. He had no idea how long she’d been gone, or where she would even try to go. Much of Oyster Bay had Syndicate members in key roles, so she wouldn’t be able to get far without landing in Sokolov’s hands, where he would promptly murder her. He hoped she had figured that out and stuck to the woods. 

He put on his shoes and jacket on and stowed a knife in his pocket, making his way to the backyard where he immediately saw prints. She had chosen the route of the woods. John breathed a sigh of relief. He’d be able to find her, and she would continue to live. He repeated it over and over. 

\--- 

Ivy had, in the shower that morning, accidentally jostled the window in the shower. It was small. Maybe 2x3. It was loose though. He stomach hooked to her heart and she thought this might be it. Hastily, she threw her clothes on. There wasn’t much room for her to get through the window on her own, much less with a bunch of stuff. She figured she had one shot. She tucked her envelope of cash into her boot along with her ID, and she went for it. The landing was rough. She bashed her knee on one of the decorative rocks peppered around the perimeter of the house. The pain coursed through her as she tried to keep moving, limping a bit. John was too polite to follow her to her room, too polite to keep checking on her, so she took advantage of it, clomping towards the woods and diving right in. The trees were relatively open, and she'd be seen if he thought to look for her, so she thought it best to keep moving. She had no idea what her plan was after she was far enough away, and her knee was slowing her down, but she had a few thousand dollars, and thought that could get her somewhere. 

Lost in thought, she didn’t see the bumpy terrain ahead, gnarled tree roots scattered about the forest floor, hidden under soft moss. She tripped, sliding down a small hill, pebbles and rocks scraping her arms and her head bobbing about as she tumbled down to a small ravine. Her temple collided with a rotting stump , the jagged edge piercing her skin and she brushed her hand to head only for her fingers to come back red. 

“FUCK!” she screamed, regretting it immediately. Her eyes began to feel very heavy, and as she tried to convince herself to stay awake, but the throb in her head was too much. She fell into the warm embrace of blackness. 

\---

John moved with purpose, but quietly through the woods. He thought he heard something. It didn’t sound like an animal, he reasoned, it sounded like a person screaming. She hadn’t taken her phone, knowing that the GPS would give her away immediately, so at least she was smart enough for that, John thought darkly. Plus she seemed like the type who wouldn’t go for help in dire times. 

As he made his way through the trees, some of the brush was disturbed. He followed the trail until it stopped, and he looked intently in either direction. Bottom of the hill, next to a fallen tree, slumped over. Please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead. 

He ambled toward her gracefully, and approached cautiously. He put his hand on her neck, feeling for a pulse. She was alive. Just very passed out, noting the hit to the head. He gingerly moved her hair to see how bad it was. Poor dear, head wounds always bleed a lot, he thought. She would have a scar, but there would be no need to stitch her up. She would be fine. He picked her up like a newborn baby, trying to be mindful of her injuries, and carried her back home. 

\---

His arms were burning by the time they emerged from the woods. He really didn’t want to carry her up the stairs, and all the relevant first aid supplies were in his ensuite bathroom, so he brought her to his bedroom, and laid her carefully on his bed. He took her muddy boots off, putting her cash and her ID on the bedside table, and began to assess the damage. He could see her knee was swollen through the hole in her jeans. She had a number of small cuts and scrapes on her arms, topped off with one rather deep gash on her shoulder, right next to her collarbone. It looked jagged and angry. 

He carefully pulled her ruined shirt over her head to see what else he might need to take care of, rolling her on her side, grateful for the camisole she wore underneath. He was surprised to find a series of very large tattoos on her back amongst the blooming bruises that would surely hurt tomorrow. A beautiful bunch of prairie roses snaked up her shoulder blade, and in beautiful script, dead in the center, _And I am in the wilderness alone._ He thought for a moment, remembering his poetry. Bryant maybe? Focus, John.

He needed to care for her wounds quickly, so they'd be clean and covered. Or, at the very least, so she wouldn't bleed on his duvet.

He pressed firmly, but as gently as he could, on her ribcage, checking for broken ribs, before getting up to wash his hands and get the medical supplies out of the bathroom, along with clean towels. He grimaced at the thought of putting disinfectant on her, memories of being patched up burned into his memory forever, but he’d have to do it. 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he tried to wake her. 

“Ivy. If you can hear me, please nod.” 

Nothing. 

“Ivy, you’re hurt, please nod if you can hear me.” 

He heard her inhale sharply, coughing a bit before snapping her eyes open. 

“What... am I doing here?” she asked him weakly, noticing her shirt was missing, her arms bolting up to cover herself, which immediately caused her to whimper in pain. 

“Shhhh. You’re hurt,” he took her hands in his and tried to lay them neatly next to her. She struggled a little, John’s hands clamped around her wrists, his eyes communicating all the warning they needed to before she stilled. John stood up and took his belt off. He handed it to her. 

“Bite down on this. I have no anesthesia or numbing fluid, and the deepest one will hurt a lot. You might need stitches. I may also need to set your knee.” 

Ivy took the belt, and placed it in her mouth. He put on latex gloves and ripped open a gauze pad, dousing it in antiseptic solution. I’m sorry angel, he thought, and he pressed it to the gash on her collarbone. She hissed through the leather in her mouth, a few tears rolling down the side of her face, disturbing the patina of blood that had dried on her temple and cheek. 

John opened more gauze and kept cleaning, trying to decide if he needed to stitch it, but it had mostly stopped bleeding, so he thought she might be ok. He bandaged it, and moved on to the next one. 

“That was the worst one. The others are small, but will still need to be cleaned. I am going to splint your knee and we should wash your face and hair. You will see a lot of blood, but the wound on your head is not deep. You... just bleed a lot from your head. Nod if you understand.” 

Ivy nodded, putting the belt next to her on the bed. 

John worked quickly. He bandaged her wounds, and went rummaging through his closet to find something he could use as a splint. Coming up short, he opted to simply wrap her knee as tightly as he could with an elastic bandage after she was clean. 

“I’m bringing you to the bathroom now. Hold on to me.” 

She nodded. John wove his arm under hers. He heaved, and picked her up. She winced. Poor girl. The ribs, he thought, while not broken were probably sore. They moved quickly, John doing most of the work to move them. 

He set her carefully on the edge of the built in bath, and turned on the water. 

“Do you need help?” he asked. 

“No.” She undid her fly and hooked her thumbs in the waistband, pulling off her jeans, whimpering as the fabric grazed her swollen knee. John busied himself with filling the tub with warm water and finding a clean washcloth and a fresh bar of soap. He didn’t think he could maneuver her into the tub itself, nor did he think she’d be able to get out, so a sponge bath would have to do. She put her legs over the edge of the tub and gasped at the pain. 

He dipped a clean washcloth into the soapy water and wrung it out. “Hold still. This will only take a minute.” He pressed it to the side of her face, dabbing at the dried blood until it was gone. 

"Lean forward." 

She obeyed, and he lathered up some shampoo and washed her hair as best he could, guiding the stream of soapy water into the basin of the bathtub. This took longer than John thought, because her hair was both thick and plentiful. 

They sat in silence as John finished dabbing at the small cut on her head, her damp hair lank around her shoulders, her undergarments totally soaked with bathwater and bruises on her face rising up to the surface. Gently taking her left leg in his hands, he began to wrap the knee. Ivy's skin prickled into goosebumps under his touch. 

“Tell me if it’s too tight.” 

“It’s fine.”

She was done. Patched up. He sighed in relief, getting up slowly. 

“Do you have pajamas? Tell me where they are and I will bring them back. You’re going to be immobile a few days until the swelling in your knee goes down.” 

She sat silently. Waiting for him to lay into her. 

“Top drawer of the dresser,” she sighed. 

John left, returning with Ivy's most dowdy pajamas, a pale pink floral set her mother gave her for Christmas some years ago, along with a sizable glass of water. She insisted she could dress herself, and pushed John out of the bathroom. 

He changed the sheets on his bed and told her to get in, Ivy sitting lamely in the armchair John had in his bedroom. She argued with him, insisting she could go up the stairs to her own room, falling like a newborn foal as soon as she tried to walk to him. I know you’re proud, but please let me take care of you, he thought, offering his hand to help her get up.

“See? You can’t even stand. Lay. Down.” 

He firmly put her back on his mattress, pulling the duvet up around her and tucking it in at her sides. Ivy let out a flustered sigh as she accepted her fate.

John left again, returning with her laptop, the manila envelope, and one of her books. He may be angry at her, but she didn't deserve to be bored. He exchanged the items for the water glass, and Ivy noticed what looked like a woman’s bracelet. Or pieces of it. It was broken. She reached out to touch it. Curious. Maybe a memento? Her lack of a poker face gave her away again. 

“It was my wife’s. Drink.”

He held the glass and Ivy looked up at him. He can’t be serious she thought. He wasn’t moving though, so he must be serious. He didn’t move the glass until she finished it, taking it with him. 

Ivy looked at the book she brought him. Wuthering Heights. She let out a short laugh. It wasn't her copy though. Hers was a cheap paperback she'd used during her english lit class, and she'd tucked it into her luggage because the book was an old friend. This volume was an old leather bound copy with woodcut illustrations. She was scared to touch it. 

John flung open the door to the basement. Now that she was patched up and where he knew she would be, he was really fucking angry at her. He’d talk to her once he cooled off a bit, but how could she do something so reckless? He knew, of course. He would have done the same, but he still felt he had the right to be upset.


	8. Chapter 8

Curiosity and boredom got the better of her as she reached for the envelope, the blooming bruises on her body protesting as she grabbed it and undid the clasp. 

A file folder. A thumb drive. She’d gone on a lot less before. Booting up her computer, she jammed the thumb drive in, and opened a video file. She figured she ought to get some context before watching god knows what, so she opened the folder. It was a police jacket. Mike Mansuetti. Age 45. Her eyes skimmed the extensive list of arrests and known associates. Hold on, she thought, this guy was a cop, seeing an IA file tucked amongst everything else. No death certificate was included with the documents, so she assumed he was alive. She checked the envelope again. Nothing else. 

She fell back into John’s comfortable pillow, a wonderful musky scent filling her nostrils and making her shiver. She had a fragmented selection of files, in which some of the paragraphs were totally blacked out, and a video. 

Almost frightened to do so, she pressed play. It was a short video. A hooded person shot, you could hear the blood filling their lungs as they bled out. It was horrible. 

Who are you? She wondered, looking at the ID photos of Mansuetti. And who’s dead if not you? 

She opened the drawer on the nightstand, John’s privacy be damned since he’d deposited her in here, and fished around for a pen, trying to ignore everything else John had stuffed in there, especially trying to ignore what felt like a pistol. She found one and ripped the envelope on the seams. She made a mind map, starting with what she knew about Sokolov. The syndicate. Which officers were corrupt and which were not but knew about corruption. She popped open her laptop again and logged into her VPN. 

Mike Mansuetti was a ghost. There was nothing. No Facebook, no LinkedIn. Nothing even from the archives or the Wayback Machine. No one in 2019 had nothing, she thought, especially not a police officer. Records were public. Someone had removed him from the internet. All traces of him, which was incredibly expensive and time consuming. 

She wrote his name down on the envelope. She put the pen between her teeth and went down the name of known associates. Archie Castillo. She knew that name. 

Bingo, gotcha, she smiled, the thrill of the chase kicking in. 

Archie Castillo was a notorious capodecina for the Giametta crime family. 

But hold on, she thought, the Giamettas were part of the Syndicate. If only in a tertiary way. Their contracts were still issued through the Syndicate network. They certainly shared information, that much she knew. She took the pen out of her mouth and tapped her temples, wincing when her contusion throbbed in protest. Added to her mind map, and drew a line between the two men. 

“How could Mike Mansuetti and Archie Castillo. know each other?” She said out loud, now sitting fully upright against the headboard.

“I think that’s why you have the file.” John was standing in the door, looking surprisingly relaxed, leaning on the frame. He’d been watching her for a while, enjoying observing her process. So deep in thought, so focused. He recognized a fellow master of craft when he saw one.

“Oh. Hi.” She said meekly, not looking up. 

“I wanted to see if you needed anything” he entered the room. She shook her head, engrossed in the puzzle before her. 

“No, I’m fine. I have a lot of work to do,” she said quietly, looking back at her computer screen. 

John left, coming back with a sandwich and an apple, as well as one of her notebooks. He set the items on the bedside table, and pulled the ottoman up next to the bed. She didn’t look up, and John thought she was either entranced by the work before her or too embarrassed to acknowledge him. Maybe both. 

“Ivy, stop for a second. I need to talk to you about what happened earlier.”

Ivy stopped typing. She wouldn’t look at him. 

“You can’t do that. Ever again. We have a shared fate, Ivy. You die, I die. Vice versa. Do you understand?” 

His tone was firm and serious. He wasn’t yelling at her, but somehow this was worse than being yelled at. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. 

“I….I get it. Your life is different. I’ve been there, and Ivy, I want you to survive, and you won’t if you do things like that. The Syndicate runs this entire town. Sokolov knows where I live. You would not make it.” 

“I didn’t think it through. I’m sorry. I saw my chance. I had to take it.” 

“How...did you even do it?” 

“I don’t know if I can describe to you what exactly I did. Before I knew it, I was on the ground. I hit my knee as soon as I hit the ground outside. One of your decorative rocks.” She did air quotes around the words "decorative rocks", as if the very idea offended her. 

“That probably hurt. Why did you keep going?” 

“Why does a freed animal keep running, John? I thought I could make it to at least one of your neighbor’s houses, but you’re really out here alone, aren’t you?” 

She closed the laptop, putting it to the side and took a long sip of water from the glass beside her. He wasn’t being threatening. He was being honest. She was beginning to believe she didn’t need to worry about John too much. Their odd living situation aside, he seemed...nice almost. Maybe not nice. Nice doesn't mean anything. He was kind. That's what he was. And he seemed to be on her side. 

"I promise. I'm not going to go anywhere John." 

She smiled tightly at him. A dismissive, let me get back to work smile, and she took an exaggerated bite of the sandwich before placing the plate on the pillow next to her. See? I’m eating, now go. Satisfied, he left. She opened the laptop again, spreadsheet back up as she plucked away at the list of names. 

\---

John tried to busy himself around the house again. He thought about rearranging the living room, he went into the office and alphabetized all his books. Why wasn’t he used to this yet? He finally got to a point where he was pacing, and took it as a cue to leave. He had to get out of the house. 

He walked back to his bedroom and before leaving, insisted he check her injuries to make sure there were no early signs of infection. She groaned and ripped the duvet off. 

“There. See? I’m fine. I won’t open the door. I won’t leave this room. Go.” 

John looked at the knee, seeing it seemed to be at least consistent and not worse. 

“Try to rest. Tell me if the pain becomes too much. I have plenty to help with that.” 

——

Ivy kept working as the sunset blazed through the enormous windows in John’s bedroom. She’d eaten the sandwich and apple. She wanted to bring the plate to the kitchen, to get up and walk around a bit, as she felt like she couldn't think in bed anymore, but her knee reminded her of why she couldn’t do that when she tossed back the duvet and tried to stand. Frustrated, she stacked the glass and plate, feeling both tired and pathetic as she laid back down. 

The sun made its final bow behind the horizon, and her head felt heavy with fatigue. She was getting close to something. She could feel it, looking back at the list of known associates. She felt it would be ok to stop for a bit.. Piling together her work messily, she reminded herself to ask John if he had a printer the next time she saw him. 

Pushing the papers onto the floor next to the bed, she reveled in the softness of the mattress, the musky scent of the bed’s true owner, how comforting the velvety sheets were against the assault of air conditioning. If I just close my eyes for a minute, she thought, thinking she heard the soft purr of her motorcycle somewhere outside...and before she could finish her thought, she was out, laptop balanced precariously, glasses on top of her head. 

__

While John hadn’t expressly asked Ivy if he could ride her motorcycle, he wasn’t really sure what she would do to stop him. He had years of experience on a bike, and he found, after driving it home the other day, that he missed it. He’d have to get one of his own soon. He'd sold his previous bike after he married Helen, at her insistence. 

He pulled over to a flower shop he used to frequent when Helen was alive. Hummingbird Florals. The bells on the door tinkled as he walked in. Nothing had changed. He liked this place because it was utilitarian and easy to navigate. John preferred simple, although the complicated seemed to reign over his life. He kept telling himself he wasn’t there getting “I’m sorry flowers.” These were “get well” flowers. Or maybe just flowers. 

Buckets of brightly colored blossoms, as well as a roll of brown butcher paper festooned the countertop. A woman in a denim shirt and a green apron emerged from the back, a paper cup in hand.

“John Wick, how lovely to see you.” 

“Hello Sue.”

“What are you looking for today?”

“Do you have any damask roses?” 

“As a matter of fact, I do. Do you want a bouquet or do you simply want the stems?”

“A bouquet. A big one. It’s for someone who is...under the weather.”

Sue smiled. She went to work right away, mixing pink wild roses with white Sweet William and orange ranunculus, while peppering in various greenery. 

“There, what do you think?” Sue held the bouquet out to John. 

He nodded. 

“If I may ask, who is it for?”

“I have a houseguest. She’s ill and I wanted to get her some flowers.” 

“Her, hm? Good to see you moving on, John.” She smiled rakishly. 

Before he had a chance to correct her, she wrapped, tied and handed the bouquet to him, refusing payment. 

“I’m just happy to see you. Don’t mention it.”

Knowing she wouldn’t take his money, he thanked her and left, affixing the flowers to his back like a quiver of arrows before putting Ivy's helmet back on. He took the long way home, sticking to the roads with the best shore views. 

He parked the motorcycle next to his car, bringing the helmet inside with him, along with the flowers. He made a mental note to put the key in the safe. At least for now. She couldn’t sit her bike with a sprained knee. Not comfortably. Plus, she needed to show him she wouldn't run away again. 

John put the flowers in a tall crystal vase Helen had loved, and brought them to the bedroom, explanation prepared, but opened the door to find her fast asleep. He smiled to himself. He placed the flowers on the nightstand and quietly closed her computer. She stirred a bit, before shifting to her back. He took her glasses off the top of her head, setting them next to the alarm clock on the end table. He sighed, obviously brushing some stray hair behind her ear before gathering up her dishes and turning the light off. Good night, Ivy.

He shut the door. He slept restlessly again that night, bound to the confines of the couch. Ivy came to him in his dreams, wordlessly caressing his face leaving a hot trail of fire, her soft fingers stroking his shoulders and chest. Her hair a wild ethereal mass, the tendrils acting almost autonomously, pulling him further into her aura while her unholy mouth pressed into his, devouring him. She swallowed him whole before he finally woke up, his t-shirt soaked through, the blanket damp with perspiration. He was so hard, it was painful. 

He sat up and sighed, checking the time on his phone, seeing he had a few text messages. One from Sokolov. 

_How is our little myshka? Has she figured it out yet?_

_No. From what I can tell, she has made progress. I will keep you updated._

Nothing to stifle desire quite like a Syndicate member texting you to check on your captive, injured roommate you most definitely were developing feelings for. Ivy was like a parasite. That was it. He got up and went to the kitchen, pouring a bowl of cereal, sitting down with the paperback he'd started earlier that day. 

John had been restless for weeks at this point. He had spent so much of his life working at night that he relished the feeling of normalcy when was, indeed, able to sleep when it was dark, so this grain of sand in the delicate mechanics of his life was really getting to him. He heard a soft thud, and he stopped mid chew to listen further. It was her. She was awake. She probably had to use the bathroom, or was trying to escape again, he thought blackly, eyes rolling. He waited a moment longer before moving toward his bedroom to check on Ivy. 

He knocked. 

“Come in.” she called.

\--- 

Ivy was on the floor, stuck. She had tried to get up to use the bathroom, but instead fell unceremoniously onto the floor next to John’s bed. Frustrated, she tried to use the bedframe to hoist herself up, but it was just high enough off the ground for her bruised arms to refused to bend that way. I guess I’m sleeping on the floor. At least the floor was clean, albeit slate so hard and kind of uneven. Who doesn’t have a rug next to their bed? She wondered. She had a nice view of the flowers that had appeared in her bedroom since falling asleep, the aroma of damask rose both heady and intoxicating. 

She heard a knock. Probably John. As much as she didn’t want to ask him to help her, she wasn’t sure how she’d get back to bed, much less to the bathroom. 

“Come in,” she called. He opened the door. 

“What happened?” his voice was calm. 

“I...um...I need to use the restroom. I didn’t want to bother you.”

“Oh. Did you want help?”

“I think I need it.” 

He put his hands under her arms and hoisted her to standing. 

“Put your arm around me.” 

She grunted in pain as he guided her forward. God, he’s like a tree trunk, she thought, as he helped her to the restroom, trying to prevent her from slipping on the slate flooring. 

“Can you—“

“I got it,” she cut him off, standing like a flamingo in the middle of the floor “can you just...wait for me so you can help me back?”

He left and waited on the far end of the room, for privacy, he thought. 

She opened the door and began to limp back to bed. He rushed to try and steady her, but she made it and allowed herself to fall straight backwards into the mattress, wiggling her butt to get to the middle and back under the duvet. 

John didn’t know what to do. His skin prickled uncomfortably. He stood in the corner for a few moments, not sure if he should speak. 

“Did I wake you?” She asked, wrapped back in the blankets, her eyes hooded in the low light. 

“I was up.”

“I’m sorry for putting you out. I’ll be able to get up the stairs tomorrow I’m sure.” 

“You didn’t put me out. You’re injured. It’s easier for me to keep an eye on you down here.” 

“Still. There’s nothing quite like sleeping in your own bed. Although I will say that your bed is so comfortable. Way better than what I have at home.” 

“It’s important to be comfortable at night,” he said simply, remembering the awful confines of sleeping on the couch. 

"Are the flowers from you?" 

"Yeah. I just thought they might brighten up the space."

"They're lovely. Roses are my favorite." But he knew that. He'd seen her tattoo, she thought. 

The air between them was electrified, the tension nearly palpable. His shoulders pulled tight like an archer’s bow, ready to release. 

“How...is your shoulder?” He asked finally

“Um. I think it’s ok. It doesn’t really hurt. Just takes landing on your ass a few times to take the pain away from your other injuries I guess,” she laughed. 

Especially on an ass as perfect as hers, he thought. He smirked.

“You should get a rug to put next to your bed. In case you fall. Would soften the blow,” they laughed together. 

“Can I ask you one thing, John?” 

“Go on.” He fluttered a bit at hearing her say his name. 

“Can you bring me my copy of _Wuthering Heights_? I can’t comfortably hold this one up. It weighs a ton. 

“You’re not going back to sleep?” 

“I’ve been laying down all day. I’m not really tired anymore. I figured I would just read until I drifted off. I don’t have it in me to read any more about the Syndicate right now.”

He didn’t blame her. He’d looked at the packet himself. None of it belonged together in his mind. Just a list of people, some of whom he knew for a fact were dead. He knew there were things she needed to ask him. He saw that she had scrawled a list with bullet points on top of her pile when he came in to turn the light off. Phone. Family. Bank account. Sokolov wasn’t very specific about many of the details, and she was probably a bit restless. He had a feeling it was a test. But, that was something they could figure out later. Ivy had proven herself to Sokolov already. 

So much of communicating with John so far was in coded subtext, Ivy thought. She didn’t know anything about him other than his penchant for suits, neutral furniture, and old books, but she’d noticed he’d caught onto her preferences right away. The flowers, he must have seen her tattoo when he was taking care of her. He probably thought that she'd enjoy reading a new edition of _Wuthering Heights_ , which is why he'd given her the behemoth volume she'd stowed under the vacant pillow next to her. She had a vision of John reading to her like a sickly Victorian waif, and wasn’t sure if that was the signal he was sending. Or if he were sending any signal. If she didn’t know his occupation, she’d think that John Wick was a bit of a romantic. 

“I...could..no never mind. I’ll go get your book. The illustrations in this edition are beautiful though. I thought you might like them.” 

“They are beautiful. What were you going to say?” 

“I was going to say I could read to you if you want. I can’t sleep either,” he said with a shrug. She sensed that he felt a little bit sheepish for asking. Victorian waif, she thought, and smiled. 

“I’d like it if you read to me.” 

John flicked on the bedside light, pulling the ottoman back over to the side of the bed. Ivy wanted to tell him that he could, if he wanted to, get in bed. She didn’t think he’d oblige her, though, so she reached over to the empty pillow and pulled the weighty volume out from under it, and handed it to John. 

“Where did you want me to start?” 

“Well, at the beginning.” 

John leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, opened the front cover, and cleared his throat. He began.

“1801.—I have just returned from a visit to my landlord—the solitary neighbour that I shall be troubled with…”

Ivy lay back and listened intently. His voice was so buttery smooth, the volume soft. She let it wash over her as if she was laying in the surf on the beach, taking it for what it was and not for what it could be: Her roommate reading her a favorite book. 

It wasn’t too long before she drifted off to sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Couple Content Warnings for this chapter: implied past abuse, pregnancy, miscarriage

The light streaming through the massive windows woke her the next morning. She sat up and ran her fingers through her tangled hair, pulling it up into a messy knot on top of her head. 

John was gone. She expected that. She threw the duvet off and tried to stand. The pain was still bad, but it hadn’t caused her to double over and fall. She could at least stand. She tried a step, and while it was painful, her knee was serviceable. She noticed that John must have taken her clothes from yesterday when he changed the sheets. Ah well, he’s seen most of my body, as she thought of him cleaning her cuts and bandaging her wounds, he can handle this ensemble. 

She hobbled over to the door and out to the kitchen. John wasn’t there either. Thinking he probably just went out for a run or maybe he had an early meeting with Sokolov, she shrugged and went over to the coffee maker. 

It had approximately 1 billion buttons. She bit her lip and pressed one. The milk steamer spat at her. 

“Ugh, fuck.” She tried another one. “Ah, the grinder. I guess that’s in the right direction?” 

She unplugged the machine, afraid of what it would do next and thought she should probably try to find the coffee beans before going any further. 

She opened cabinets at random, hoping she wouldn’t have to bend down to get anything. 

“Bingo!” she found them in the drawer underneath the machine. 

“Ok, let’s see if I can remember what I did,” plugging the coffee machine back in. She emptied some beans into the grinding mechanism, the aroma of coffee being crushed filling her nostrils and making her mouth water. 

“It’s gotta just be ‘on.’ right?” she said to to herself as she pushed different combinations of buttons. She heard stifled laughter behind her. John had been in the basement apparently and was standing, arms folded, next to the door. 

“It’s not funny. I’ve never seen a coffee maker this complicated before! Mine has one button!” 

“Here, let me help you.” John walked over and very slowly and dramatically reached his arm around her and hit the “brew” button. 

“Thanks,” she said dryly without turning around, intently watching the pot filling. 

John opened a cabinet, pulling coffee cups down and setting them next to her. Big Hug Mug, she spied. She hadn’t unpacked that yet. Her eyes narrowed. 

“Did you...go through my stuff?”

“No. But I remembered you packed this in your luggage and I didn’t want it to get broken. So. Kind of. I kind of went through your stuff.”

“This whole thing,” she gestured around with her hand “plus the fact that you went through my stuff, is incredibly fucked up.”

“You're just putting that together?”

“Well, yeah. We’re almost a month into a living arrangement that has no expiration date, and it feels like we’re both tiptoeing around broken glass. I don’t know anything about you. You’re beholden to Sokolov for someone reason, but other than that...nothing!"

She put her mug on the counter a little more loudly than she probably should have, to emphasize her “nothing.”

“Do you think I wanted this, Ivy?”

“Then why did you agree to it?

“Use your head, Ivy. You kicked a snake and you’re surprised that it tried to bite? I didn’t have much of a choice, and neither did you.”

“Then why not just kill me? You could tell Sokolov about my escape...attempt. I’m sure that would piss him off and he wouldn’t care if you killed me.”

“No, he would. He’s decided you’re valuable. You found Vera’s lover.”

Ivy scoffed as John went on. 

“You’re always trying to get me to kill you, Ivy. I’m not going to do it. I don’t kill innocents. You, I believe, meddled in an area you didn’t understand.”

“That’s bullshit, John. I worked on that story for weeks. I knew exactly what I was doing. It’s honestly a little insulting that you think I don’t.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, “What I didn’t count on was retribution so quickly.” 

John made a deep “hmph” noise in his throat. The coffee was done. Ivy pulled the carafe off the machine and poured for both of them. John noted how fucked up her arms and parts of her face looked today. Poor little fox, he thought, his heart softening, almost wanting to laugh at the absurdity of her standing in his kitchen in floral pajamas covered in bandages, yelling at him to kill her. 

“So tell me then, how did you...end up..working for them?” She said, a noticeable acidity in her voice. 

Ivy was as curious about him as he was about her. Sokolov talked an awfully big game about a man who was standing in front of her wearing a Duran Duran shirt and basketball shorts. His hair was curly and fluffy this morning, and his eyes bright from what she assumed was a good night's sleep. 

“You don’t want to know that.”

“No, I do. I had no idea being a goon for the Syndicate paid so well. Your house is like...ridiculous. Makes me think I should apply next time they’re accepting applications.”

He’d have to start at the beginning. Well, maybe not at the beginning. He drank deeply from his coffee cup, wishing there was something a bit stronger mixed in. He sighed. Better for him to tell her than for her to hear one of the famous platitudes people in this nefarious little world they were both entrenched in. 

“Sit,” he gestured to the sofa, “this is not a short story.”

Ivy hobbled to the living room with her coffee and cautiously sat, the soft cushions enveloping her. 

“It began when I met Helen, my wife. I told you about her. I had been working for an organization similar to what you know as the Syndicate. I wanted to walk away so I could marry her.”

John went on for a while. Ivy learned the previous governing body of most high level criminal activity had been sacked. The Syndicate was big, but not as big as what it had replaced. Also, she thought, who the fuck kills a puppy? She nodded along to his story. Jesus, she thought, he’s been through a lot. 

“And that’s...that.” 

Ivy searched for the right words. She had a lot of questions, but didn’t think they were appropriate to ask right now, this moment after he’d shared so much of an intensely personal story. 

“What about you, Ivy?” 

John stood up and retrieved the carafe of coffee and brought it back with him, filling his cup and hers again. 

“I came here for college. NYU. I didn’t leave. That was more than 10 years ago.” 

“Mmmm. Where are you from?” John already knew that, but he wanted to hear her tell it. 

“New Liberty, Iowa. My father died when I was 18. I was, well, I was supposed to stay. Take over the farm with…” she trailed off.

Should she tell him about Gavin? 

“I was...I was married too.” 

John cocked his head to the side, perhaps in confusion, perhaps in surprise. Ivy couldn’t tell. 

“I...got pregnant when I was 17. I didn’t love him. He didn’t force me, but I also don’t remember saying yes. No one talked about it. My mother made me marry him. I miscarried. Late. That doesn’t happen often,”. She paused, all of those memories came flooding back to her and she curled her fingers into her thighs, “it was horrible.” She concluded. 

John felt a bit of his heart break for her. He thought of himself at 17. Reckless, stupid. His natural talent for his current job already manifesting itself in his military career. He couldn’t imagine trying to settle down and be an adult at that age. 

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. 

Ivy went on. 

“My father dying made me realize that you only get one life, and I didn’t want to spend it married to...him. So, I packed up the Bonneville with everything I could fit in the panniers after I got my acceptance letter to NYU. My sister and mother beg me to come home every time I talk to them. Tell me I need to ‘make it right’ with him.”

She didn’t mention that Gavin had never sent the divorce papers back, nor did she mention that he had broken her jaw after the miscarriage. That her mother never once told her she was proud of her daughter and the work she'd done. There was enough heaviness in the air. Though she did find herself questioning why she thought he would care. John hoped his silence wouldn’t upset her. He wasn’t sure what to say. She'd shown him her ugliness, and he'd shown her his. They were in deep now. 

“You’re the first person I’ve ever told. Since moving here.” 

“You’re brave, Ivy.” 

“No, I’m not.” 

“You changed the trajectory of your life. There’s not many people who do that. I’m sorry it was under the circumstances it was, but grief blows a hole in us, doesn't it?”

“Indeed. But I'm also drowning in my student loans. My healthcare is shit, and my apartment is expensive.” she shrugged.  
John nodded. That didn't seem fair. 

He was surprised then, frozen in place when he felt her long arms wrap around him moments later, the top of her hair ticking the bottom of his nose. Together, they sat for just a few seconds. Before she had to get back to Archie Castillo and Mike Mansuetti. Before he had to talk to Sokolov. 

“I’m sorry about Helen,” she said quietly. 

She moved to get up, and John felt a sudden emptiness when she pulled away. She walked into his bedroom and gathered her notes and laptop. 

“I have to get to work. I wrote a list of questions I have for Sokolov when you meet with him,” she handed him a page torn from her notebook, the one he noticed last night. John stared back at her blankly.

“I’ll be upstairs. Have a good day, John.”  
——

First, she wanted to shower, she thought when she made it up the stairs, after much limping. The sponge bath John had given her yesterday had not gotten all of the dirt from her walk in the woods off of her, and her hair was a tangled nest. 

The bathroom was luxurious, and she checked to see that John had fixed the window she went out of. She ran her hand down the carerra marble. Still a prison, but at least a pretty one. 

The hot water and excellent pressure felt sinful. It was like being in a nice hotel, she thought as she toweled off, still worried she was somehow ruining John’s thick Egyptian cotton towels simply by using them. She checked the drawers for bandages and changed the dressings on her wounds. She moisturized her skin, ran a comb through her hair.

John, or maybe the elusive Doris, had put her toiletries in a little cluster in the corner of her vanity during her stint downstairs, since she hadn’t bothered to unpack much in the last month. 

She sighed, grabbing her tube of leave in conditioner and working it through her hair. Her clothes were in the dresser, too. She hadn't unpacked because unpacking felt final. 

As she twisted her hair in tiny sections to accentuate her natural wave, she thought back to her conversion she had with John. She could have sworn she saw a small spark of jealousy when she mentioned her ex-husband. Maybe it was a surprise. Maybe he didn't know a ton of women in their early 30s with an ex-husband. And, well, you don’t either, she thought to herself. She made a note to make her quarterly attempt to get him to send them back to her. She didn’t want his money, and she knew he had another woman he was in a relationship with. New Liberty wasn’t the type of place where you just didn’t get married. You didn’t get divorced there either, really. He was only holding out because he was cruel. 

Feeling a million times better, she dressed, pulling a grey sweatshirt over her tank top, and made her way to the office. She set up her laptop and opened the window, trying to break the grip of too much air conditioning, enjoying the sounds of the grove of trees next to the house. She sipped coffee, and read over her notes. 

And there it was. It was so obvious. She laughed out loud. The person shot in the video was Sokolov’s cousin. Kiryl Sokolov. It was right there, a third of the way down the list of known associates. A name. Known associates. How could she have missed it? She searched, and came up with a death certificate. Autopsy and coroner’s report citing gunshot wound to the stomach. The worst way to die, she thought, and consistent with the video. 

That’s why Sokolov wanted to know where Mansuetti was. 

So the person doing the shooting was probably Mansuetti. Whether or not he was a cop, or had been one wasn’t clear. She still couldn’t figure out where Castillo fit in, but she felt a pull to watch the video again. The key was in the video, it had to be, because otherwise she didn't have much else to lean on. 

She hit play, pausing periodically to study the frames. Right before the end, ever so slightly, the shooter turned toward the camera. She paused and took a screenshot. 

She popped it into AfterEffects and did as much sharpening as she could. 

A facelift scar. Maybe more. She couldn’t really tell. She leaned back in the chair and checked her Sokolov issued phone. Was it...could she call him? 

No. There wasn’t enough to make a call just yet. She pulled up the two photos of Archie Castillo and Mike Mansuetti and studied them. She zoomed in. Even with extensive plastic surgery, the eyes would be the same if her insane hunch she was anything to go off of. 

They same steely blue. She licked her lips, nearly forgetting to breathe.. It felt too easy. Too absurd. But then she remembered the lengths people will go to survive, thinking of her shimmying out the window in John’s en-suite bathroom, and made a decision. 

“Fuck it. If I’m wrong, this guy has probably done some awful shit. Corrupt cop, Giametta capo, he’s still bad.”

She screenshot the eyes, popped them into her DropBox, and stood up. She had to go tell John. Or at least give him her notes before he went to Sokolov’s. 

—-

John sat on the couch for a long time. He had been starved of genuine affection for so long that he had forgotten what it felt like to be cared for. He was trying to stifle a part of him he’d thought he’d buried long ago. You dummy, he thought, it was one hug. A long one as it stood, but that was it. You’re all used up and hollow. I bet she probably just feels sorry for you. Don’t forget the kidnapping, either. She doesn't want to be here.

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts he didn’t notice Ivy standing in front of him, looking like a dog who had rolled in shit. She waved slightly to get his attention. He moved his gaze to her. 

“Have you spoken to Sokolov?”

“No. I’ll be on my way there in a moment.”

She nodded. 

“I figured it out. I have a...what would I call this, a dossier? Sure. I have a dossier for you. To take to Sokolov.”

She handed him the thumb drive with the video on it.

“Tell him it’s all there. Tell him to call me if he has questions, and I know it sounds insane, but on my life, it’s true.” 

She turned and made her way back up the stairs, turning slightly, she said, 

“And tell him he can do better than that.”

——

“She swore on her life. Like you said, she’s not stupid,” John said as Sokolov perused Ivy's findings.

“No, Mr. Wick. She’s not,” he took his reading glasses off and stowed them in his pocket. “She has an interesting way of thinking. It’s as if she never discounts a possibility.”

John nodded in agreement. 

“Well, she is about 3 days ahead of when I’d hoped she’d produce results. She also brought my darling Vera back to me. I suppose she has earned a reward, do you agree? Has she behaved otherwise?”

No, not exactly, he said to himself. 

“She is resentful. Understandably.” 

“Sure. Change is always a learning curve. Don't be afraid to break the horse. She'll comply eventually," Sokolov said, unlocking a drawer in his desk, pulling out some stacks of hundreds. He pushed them toward John, "Her payment."

As much as he wanted to retort to Sokolov's comment, he kept his mouth shut as Sokolov counted out the money. 

He picked up the phone and called one of the goons stationed around the compound. They spoke in Russian for a moment, and Sokolov hung up. The one John thought might be Chernov returned with a small velvet box, which he placed on top of Ivy’s cash. 

“And a bonus.”

John opened it. It was a stunning Omega watch. Chernov reached for the watch and put all the cash in a leather satchel. 

“God, I miss the old days when we didn’t have to deal in cash. I hope to have the administrators back up and running soon. People have so many more questions about cash.”

“Ivy had a few questions. Can you look at them and answer?”

John pushed the paper to Sokolov. 

“Ah yes. Let’s see here. Family. She can talk to her family after I trust her. This was a good first step. Bank account. Right, one moment.” 

He produced two envelopes. One with bank information from the Syndicate’s Swiss bank for her deposits to go unnoticed, the other with her next assignment and placed them in the satchel. 

“Now, Mr. Wick. As for you, Archie Castillo. I will set the contract at $500,000. You can bid first. Do you want it?”

John thought for a moment. Maybe doing some work would remind him of who he was and he’d stop feeling the foreignness of warmth in his heart every time he thought of Ivy asleep in his house. 

“It will be done.” 

John stood up and left, leather satchel in hand.

“A pleasure, as always, Mr. Wick.

——

Ivy made her way back downstairs after destroying her research and emptying her internet cache, as Sokolov had instructed in his latest email. She kept her printed notes though. She knew her existence was tenuous now. She figured Vera showing up was just the tip of whatever iceberg was ahead on her journey. If what she had that could prove or disprove something, she hung onto it. 

She took a seltzer from the fridge. John had mentioned a housekeeper, but she had yet to see her. Granted, she’d been otherwise engaged much of the time she’d been in Johns house. She did notice a notepad with a shopping list on it. She walked over and added two things: toaster waffles and crunchy peanut butter. She studied John’s handwriting, noting the curious way he drew his “a’s”, and looking to see what else was on the list. Ugh. Kale. Quinoa. Lemons. Well, at least he was trying to keep her healthy. She couldn't fault him that. 

She then opened the door to the garage, satisfied when she saw her bike parked in the middle. 

She plopped on the couch, slipping her shoes off so she could put her feet up, and opened her book. She was, of course, immensely curious about everything else in the house, but would have to wait until she was a little quicker on her feet to look around. 

She heard a car turn on to the gravel driveway. John arrived moments later, a black leather satchel in tow. He walked to the couch and set it next to her. 

“What’s this? Castillo's head?” 

“No. Open it.”

She unzipped it. Her heart nearly burst forth from her chest. Piles of cash.

She picked up the box and shook it. John lurched forward. 

“I wouldn’t.”

She opened it. A stunning platinum watch with a black face and a diamond for every number. 

“A bonus. From Sokolov. You’ll also find your payment, around 15 thousand, your next assignment, and bank information for your new Swiss bank account. You’ll have to mail your deposits, so if you need any additional cash in the meantime, just let me know.”

Ivy was holding the box the watch came in as if it were a dead snake.

“How on earth am I going to spend 15 thousand in cash? Welcome to the Syndicate, I guess.”

John nodded. 

“What will happen to Castillo?”

“You know, Ivy.”

“When?”

“Tonight. Maybe tomorrow. When I feel like it.”

She nodded solemnly. 

“I see. You took the contract.”

“Mmmm. How is your knee today?”

“Oh, uh. It’s fine. Doesn’t hurt as much. I can walk.”

“Good.”

With that, he moved to his bedroom to get ready for the job that night.

——

He decided he was going to use some of the money from Castillo’s contract to pay off Ivy’s student loans. He wouldn’t have gotten the contract at all if it hadn’t been for her work. Plus, he wanted to. She deserved it, and he really didn’t need the money. He had money in places he didn’t even totally understand, so he worked really out of obligation to the Syndicate for keeping him alive during the war. 

Turning the shower on, he groaned as the hot water loosened the tension wound throughout his body, both from exhaustion and her presence in his space. You’re going to have to get used to it, he ordered himself. 

He changed his clothes, picking a black suit and black dress shirt. He moved to the basement to get the equipment he needed. He thought the long range would suffice, grabbing a pistol just in case. He planned to do the job from afar. In and out, fast and clean. 

Ivy must have dug into her new assignment, he thought as he came up from the basement to see she’d left the couch, hearing music coming from the office. He still didn’t really trust her so he climbed the stairs and knocked. 

“Yeah?” 

He opened the door slightly. 

“I’m on my way.”

“Ok. Be...careful, I guess,” not looking up from her computer screen, stacks of papers in organized chaos on the desk. 

“I always am.”

—— 

Castillo lived in Connecticut, in a small bungalow. There were no signs of anyone else living in the house with him, John noted, observing from the roof of the house next door. He watched intently through the scope of his rifle. This was a busy neighborhood, and he wasn’t sure if he would be able to slip out unnoticed. A gunshot barreling through glass would certainly be noticed. 

Change of plans. He was going into Castillo’s house. He sighed and climbed down from the roof, his knees aching. He turned the safety off his revolver and pulled it out of its holster wrapped around his torso, spinning a silencer onto the end. Castillo looked like he had bedded down for the night. It was either go in quietly, give Castillo a chance to hear him, or go in guns blazing and hope for the best. He chose option A. 

He quietly entered the house on the opposite end of Castillo’s bedroom. He took his shoes off, his breath shallow, ears attentive, listening for the slightest disturbance. He made his way down the hallway, clearing the rooms as he went, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. Castillo, the fool, slept with his door open. This made it too easy. 

Digging deep into himself as he did whenever he had to do a job, he planted his feet, found his shot, and squeezed the trigger. John Wick didn’t miss, and Castillo was dead before he had a chance to know someone was after him. He preferred these jobs, where he didn’t have to get information out of people before killing them. They were so much more pliable and compliant when you could just shoot them. He turned the light on, and put his shoes back on before dialing Sokolov. 

“It’s done. I will send you my location.” 

“Very good, Mr. Wick. Cash Payment will be remitted tomorrow. The bank, as you can imagine, is closed at this late hour. Send my regards to Miss Falk.” 

\---

It would take some getting used to, she thought, to know that information she’d dug up or completed would be used to kill or maim people. They were bad people, she reasoned, but they were still people. She didn’t sleep at all that night, waiting on the couch to see John when he came back. The garage door opened and his car pulled in. She looked at her new ridiculous watch. 3:42 a.m. Late. 

“What are you doing up?” 

John didn’t look any different from when he left. He had a long black case with him, and his shoes in his other hand, a hair barely out of place. There was a walk of shame joke in there somewhere, Ivy thought to herself, but she figured he wouldn’t find it as funny as she did. 

“Can’t sleep. I am...I guess reconciling that information I shared killed a man tonight.” 

He sighed. He thought this might happen. He put his shoes down and took his jacket off putting it over one of the chairs at the dining table. He came down to the couch and sat next to her. He had a black holster strapped around his trunk, and he’d undone his tie, which ivy found oddly arousing. She shifted uncomfortably. 

“Well, if...you want to talk about it, I’m listening.” 

“I mean...I have no doubt that Castillo was a shitty guy. Ex-cop with an extensive IA file and many accusations of excessive force goes to work for the Giamettas, climbs the ranks really fucking fast, and after gaining all that notoriety, he shoots Sokolov’s cousin. He wasn’t a good person, but he... was still a person.” 

He put a hand on her shoulder. 

“Shhh, it’s ok.” 

“But is it?” 

“Well. No. But you find a way to live with it. I know that isn’t the kindest answer, Ivy, but this isn’t a very kind business you’ve found yourself in. I’m sorry you’re going through this.” 

She nodded softly, silent tears streaming down her face. 

“Thank you,” she stood, “I should go to bed.”

She exhaled audibly and pulled the hem of her shirt up to wipe her eyes, the creaminess of her belly glowing in the melange of moonlight and very faint streetlight, not realizing what she was doing. John felt a mixture of wanting to protect her, and wanting to lay his head in her lap. To feel safe. To feel cared for.


	10. Chapter 10

After weeks of awkwardness, tension, and irritation at the other one, Ivy and John settled into a quiet acceptance, perhaps even a fondness for each other’s presence. Just as the autumn set in. The heat had broken with the crispness of autumn setting in, and John finally turned off the air conditioner. Ivy was enjoying watching the trees surrounding the property change, drinking her coffee on the porch most mornings to observe both the wildlife and the fantastic color of the trees. Her bruises had faded and her knee was back to normal. In fact, she was back to running most days, which she unfortunately had to do in John’s basement on a treadmill, but she was happy to be back at it. 

On a typical day, Ivy would come down stairs, grab a coffee, shower, and get to work. John finally accepted that this was just how she operated, so he stopped being offended that she didn’t want to eat breakfast with him or talk to him in the morning. 

John was most often active at night. He would always check on her when he returned home from a job, making sure she was safely wrapped in that horrible quilt she’d brought into his home. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her. He’d killed a half dozen men and women connected to the Giamettas, the Yakuza, and Bowery Boys in the past three weeks alone, and any group she’d managed to piss off had a good reason to come and kill her in her bed. She never woke when he cracked open the door to see if she was still breathing. She often looked...amused in her sleep. Like her dreams were entertaining, although he knew they weren’t always. 

As he had explained to Ivy, the Syndicate was really like a trade association. There were rules and governance, but no one followed any of them. Sokolov was a figurehead, and his board of directors had opinions, but rarely were they acted upon, and every group within the Syndicate had problems with other groups, which lead to squabbling, disagreement, and of course, death. It was all a dalliance. Sokolov’s main allegiance would always be to his group, and control of the Syndicate was an apparatus to wield more power. 

Her current project was a bit maddening. Defalcation, probably. Sokolov thought he had proof, but it was messy. Disorganized. He’d asked Ivy to make sense of it. She had no idea why anyone would try to fuck these people over. Didn’t they know what happened to people who couldn’t follow the rules? She shuddered, remembering the John that had been standing outside the bar that night. 

She sat on the floor, a highlighter between her teeth, finding the desk and its finite amount of space to be too constricting for all the papers she needed to look at at once. 

It was becoming increasingly clear to that Sokolov was ONLY issuing contracts based on the information she provided to him, so in order for her to maintain some sense of moral center, she had to do the best she could to get it right, so neither her or John would be harming innocents. Especially when the information was mainly coming from the bratva. She should talk about that with John, she thought, looking at her own records she kept. That might be more of a problem than either of them thought it would be. 

John called her for dinner. A nice ritual the two of them had started. They ate together most nights, unless John was on an overnight job. 

Not long after her escape attempt, John sat her down and told her she needed to start taking better care of herself. Her work would kill her, especially since it was pouring in at a much more rapid rate than either of them had imagined. Ivy, you have to take breaks. You have to eat and sleep, he said to her. He was right. She had been burning the candle at both ends, and why? She had a roof over her head, hot meals. She was working to pad her savings and finish paying her student loans off. Sokolov trusted her. Life was ok!

She sighed and stuck the highlighter behind her ear and walked downstairs, her head swimming with the names and dates of different transactions. She was getting an idea, based on some limited knowledge she had on construction estimation, that one or perhaps two, given the amount of missing money, of the accountants was inflating the cost of building the new Syndicate headquarters in Queens. But that was enough for now, she thought as she pulled a chair out for herself at the table.

John spooned some sauteed kale onto a plate with a piece of grilled salmon and handed it to her. He ate obnoxiously healthy, and made it a point to serve her first, which was obnoxious in its own right. Ivy secretly loved it. It was like living with a relic from another era.

While he was a very talented cook and endlessly gracious host, she would give a few of her teeth for a Shake Shack burger with cheese fries and a salted caramel milkshake. He poured them both a glass of sauvignon blanc and watched her take a few bites, hoping for approval. 

The dynamic of their relationship had changed a lot of the past few weeks. John acted as an advisor when he could, and a sounding board for the rest of the time. Without trying, they’d developed a deep attachment to one another. A solid friendship. He was constantly in awe of her brilliance and tenacity to chase down any lead, and he couldn’t remember a time when he’d laughed so much. 

“Can I ask you some questions?” 

“Shoot.” 

“How long have the new Syndicate headquarters been under construction, and who’s in charge of it?” 

She half knew the answer to that, but wanted to confirm her suspicions. 

“It’s been 6 months? 7 months? Sokolov and the bratva are in charge of the construction.” 

“Why do they still do everything on paper? There should be an easier way to catch this person. He’s got to have hackers, cyber security, the whole thing. I don’t get it.” she chewed a piece of kale. 

“When the high table fell, much of the infrastructure went with it. He’s probably all paper just for now. Plus, I think Sokolov has taken a liking to you. He trusts you. Hackers can be a little slippery.” John grinned. 

“Hm, do you know any though? I don’t know of any legal ways to get the information I need. Or that I think I need.” 

“What do you need?” 

“I want to monitor all existing accounts of two people I have narrowed it down to. Anna Petrovka and Mark Spiatza. It could be both of them.” 

Ivy shot John a meaningful look, and he filled her glass with more wine. 

“I have someone. I will make some calls after we finish eating.”

No more work talk, she thought, remembering John’s insistence she take breaks. She picked up her wine glass and drank deeply. Then launched into the conversation they had most nights. 

“Thank you for cooking.” 

“It’s my pleasure. I don’t have much to do until you send me on an assignment.” 

“Oh please. You could take other contracts. I just don’t think you want to.” 

He didn’t. It wasn’t that he had lost the stomach for it, it was merely that it felt purposeless. He could kill 100 men and 200 more would show up in their places to do the same dirty job. A fool's errand. 

“Anything new with you?” Ivy asked brightly. 

“Well, Sokolov’s daughter is getting married in a week or so.”

“Wow, I bet that will be the height of elegance and taste.”

She thought back to his office, and imagined nouveau riche scaled up to a wedding and chuckled. 

He’d been meaning to ask her if she wanted to go for weeks. 

“Would you maybe want to go? Sokolov will expect us to be there, but if you don’t want to, I understand.”

Ivy stopped chewing for a moment. Would she? She thought about it, and then she thought of her pile of black jeans and black t shirts upstairs and sighed.

“I'd love to, but I don’t have anything to wear.” 

“That would be easy enough to fix.”

Oh, what the hell. It would be one night. She deserved a little fun. Plus when on earth would she get to experience something like that again? 

“Ok. I’ll go.” She’d look at dresses online later that night. Maybe shoes. 

“Good.”

Finished eating, talking about what books they were reading, and John told her about his most recent job. John loved how he could get lost in conversation with her. Sometimes dinner took 2 or 3 hours, most of it just talking about anything and everything. 

When there was finally a lull in their spirited discussion of she stood to take his plate. He always protested, explaining that was part of the reason Doris was around, but she always insisted. You cooked! She would shout. Let me take care of the dishes! He would sit at the island while she finished cleaning, just wanting to spend more time with her, if he could. Much of the time, he had a job to get ready for. He wondered if this would ever stop. This feeling of contentment when she was around. 

—-

The next day, Ivy had a meeting with a hacker named 0nyx. She’d snorted a bit when John told her their name. Ivy kind of hated hackers. They solved puzzles without having to do any of the on the legwork she did. It felt like cheating. 

She set her laptop up in the dining room, and waited for 0nyx to call. She wasn’t sure where John was, but she didn’t much care if he overheard this conversation. 0nyx joined the call. 

Ivy explained what she was trying to do, to monitor incoming and outgoing transactions. 

0nyx listened carefully and then recommended setting up a honeypot so he could manage the monitor. Ivy was sort of aware of what he meant, but told him she didn’t want to focus so much on the how, and simply wanted results. 

They struck a deal and Ivy followed the directions to pay him he’d sent to her. $1000 now, $2000 after he’d produced something. It was too easy, she thought, closing her laptop after typing an update to Sokolov and sending it. 

\--  
It was perfect, he thought. The pleating in the front was exquisite, with two long pieces of fabric draped down the back gave the illusion of a cape, which just tickled him. She’d look like a Greek goddess. Plus, it had pockets. Helen once told him that all women really want are clothes with pockets, so that sealed the deal. He was taking it home. He’d hoped he’d got the sizing right as the saleswoman zipped it into a garment bag. 

“Wait,” he said to the saleswoman, “we need shoes.”

“Ah. Of course. I would recommend these.” She pointed to a silk champagne pump with a low heel. John thought it was a tad matronly, and he thought about Ivy’s legs swirling in the pool back in August. 

“How about these?” His hand ran a finger over the smooth nude patent leather of those iconic pumps with the red bottoms. 

The saleswoman smiled mischievously. 

“Your wife is very lucky, you have such nice taste.” 

“Oh no, it’s not for my wife. It’s for my…” he trailed off. What was Ivy? 

“It’s for a friend.” 

“Either way, whoever she is, she’ll be impressed. You've made some good picks.” 

“Oh, and pick a handbag for her too, please. A small one.”

He couldn’t help but feel the saleswoman thought she was ringing up clothing for his mistress as she walked away and returned with a nude patent clutch. 

He wanted to surprise her. To do something nice for her. She was working incredibly hard for Sokolov, showing focus that people had only ever told him he displayed. Plus, he liked having her around. It wasn’t just him, alone, in the house anymore. It was the two of them, and her friendship, despite his secret craving for more, meant a lot to him. 

“Thank you. I believe she will look stunning.” 

The saleswoman carried everything out to his car and he made his way out of the city and back to Oyster Bay. He’d wait to bring everything up. He wanted it to be a genuine surprise. He walked inside and saw her eating yogurt at the island, balanced on her elbows, highlighter stuck behind her ear and her glasses on her head.

“Hey,” she said, “I talked to 0nyx. He’s a weird one.” 

He chuckled softly. 

“I told you. He’s good though. Or so I understand. I don’t have much use for hackers most of the time.”

“Well, either way, i should know in a few days if it’s the people I think it is. I might ask Sokolov to send me another file while I wait. I can’t work on it anymore without knowing who it is.” She balanced her chin on her hands. 

“Maybe you should take a break.” 

She scoffed. “And do what? 

She had him there. 

“Beach?” 

“It’s the end of October.” 

“Fair enough.” 

“I think I might go for a run. That’d be a break.” 

She made her way to her bedroom and changed. She opened the basement door when John stopped her. 

“Why don’t you run outside today? It’s a nice fall day.” 

“Oh. Ok?” 

“Yeah, go.” 

After she was on her way, John brought the dress and shoes into the house and placed the boxes in the middle of her bed. He sat on the couch and waited, pretending to read.

About an hour later, Ivy returned. Her grey t-shirt absolutely drenched with sweat and her sides heaving. She waved to John, and ran up the stairs. He lifted his chin over his book and smiled. 

\---

The dress was ridiculous, Ivy thought. It was beautiful, but it was ridiculous. There was no way it would fit, no way it would look good on her, and no way was she going to leave the house in it. The shoes. She laughed out loud at the shoes, which she hadn’t even opened. Are you kidding? Christian Louboutin? She looked down at her running shoes and wondered if it would be a feat of physics or magic to get her feet into the pumps.

Just who did he think he was, lifting the lid on the box and unwrapping the tissue. They were gorgeous alright. Trying them on wouldn’t hurt before she insisted John take them back, that they were too much and he shouldn’t buy her things, she had money to buy clothes. In fact, she’d already bought a dress. 

This dress, on the other hand, would be hard to give back. It was a gorgeous hunter green, floor length gown with a deep plunging neckline and draping down the back. The skirt cascaded beautifully to the ground and ended in a pool. She’d never worn anything like it before. Everything she owned was utilitarian. Even the dresses she had were simple and inexpensive, known for holding up in the wash rather than existing for aesthetics. 

In fact, it was so enchanting, she was sort of afraid to touch it, certain it was silk and that it would disintegrate in her grubby hands. She thought she ought to hang it up at least, so it wouldn’t get wrinkled. She would shower, and then go tell John he had to take everything back, and that was final. 

\--  
Ivy came down the stairs more quickly than usual, the enormous orange cardigan sweater he loved billowing behind her. She looked like a cute little pumpkin with it on. John thought she probably found the dress, and thought she was probably mad and was going to try to either pay him for it or take it back, neither of which he would be doing. 

“John?” 

“How was your run?” he put his book down. 

“John. What... is that dress you left in my room?” 

“It’s for the wedding. It’s a black tie affair, so please forgive me for assuming you didn’t have anything formal.” 

She scowled. He went on, not mentioning that he also really wanted to see her in the dress. 

“If you don’t like it, we can go pick something together, but I thought it would look nice with your eyes and hair color.” 

“It’s not that I don’t like it, I love it, it’s that I know that it was probably incredibly expensive and I hate that you paid for it.” 

Ivy had been on her own for a long time, he reasoned, just like him. She’d done everything herself. He remembered her telling him that she’d had four jobs at one point, sleeping in 2 hour spurts when she could. She needed a little luxury in her life. 

“It’s a gift. Just say thank you and enjoy it.” 

“But what if you doesn’t fit?”

“It’ll fit. There’s elastic in the bodice.”

“How do you know so much about women’s clothing?”

“I’ve bought a lot of dresses in my day.”

“The shoes though. They’re too tall.”

“I’ll help you. You’ll be with me the whole time. If you want to that is.” 

She spun on her foot and went back up the stairs.”

“So is that a yes?”

“I guess it is.”


	11. Chapter 11

Ivy covered herself in several layers of moisturizer, finishing with her rose perfume, and sat on her bed in a towel for a while, waiting for everything to absorb, absentmindedly checking the large rollers she’d popped into her hair to give her some volume, like the video she’d watched told her to. 5 Steps to Incredible Hair. Incredible was what she needed if she was going to pull off the dress.

That morning, 0nyx forwarded her exactly what she needed, and when she transferred her data into a spreadsheet, she found that she was right. Anna Petrovka and Mark Spiatza had inflated the construction costs at least 10% in each one of the ledger entries. She made copies of the documents for Sokolov and put everything on a thumb drive. She set it on the nightstand next to her clutch, so she wouldn’t forget to bring it. 

She had been wearing the pumps in her room whenever she could. The internet had also told her she needed to break them in, and the best way to do it was to wear them as much as possible. She found it amusing to be sitting around in leggings and one her dad’s old motorcycle shirts wearing shoes that cost more than her first car. What even was her life at this point?

What she didn’t notice when she saw the dress for the first time was that it had a very daring slit up the side. John, you dog, she thought. Ivy wasn’t oblivious. She saw the way he watched her when she unloaded the dishwasher, when she lay on her stomach on the floor to read, his eyes wandering a bit until he caught himself. She didn’t mind, and was often a little flattered, but it always felt like a problem they could figure out later. Something that just hung over her. Hung over him. 

She took her hair out of the rollers and braided the front into a fishtail and pushed everything else into a low chignon at the nape of her neck. This would have to do, she thought, as she did some simple makeup, waiting to put her lipstick on until she was dressed. 

Hoping for the best, she then put on all the uncomfortable foundation garments that men never knew about when it came to dressing for events like this. She’d ordered them online, because she wasn’t going to risk a nipple slip in front of Sokolov’s family. Ballet pink silk, cream lace, Ivy had never owned anything quite so...frivolous before, though she expected it was necessary in this situation. 

She slipped into her shoes, having read online that it was always a good idea to put your shoes on before your dress so you didn’t risk popping a seam. She had done so much research into how to wear clothes like the shoes and the dress because the concept was pretty foreign to her. After all, she wore a cotton sundress to her own wedding.   
And she could barely bend in the bustier and high-waisted compression underwear she pulled onto her body with a snap. She stepped into the dress and put the straps over her shoulders, then realizing she had no way to zip it. Of course. She tried it herself, but was worried about the integrity of the seams. She had no choice. 

“John? Can you come here?” she called. 

She heard his footsteps on the stairs.

“Yes?” 

“Can you...I can’t...um...zip.” 

“Can I open the door?” 

“Yes.” 

She looked stunning. Her rich hair swept up in a chignon, her skin practically luminous, and she stood there a little bit helpless, with the dress hanging limply on her frame. It made her eyes pop. He’d been right about the color. 

“You look beautiful.” 

“Thanks.” 

“Turn around.” 

She carefully turned until she was facing the wall. He clasped the top of the dress, it fit her perfectly. Good guess, he congratulated himself. His heart skipped a beat seeing the insane undergarments she’d put on, imagining him carrying her off to his bedroom and unwrapping her like a little french pastry, hot and fresh from the boulangerie, he thought wickedly. He slowly pulled the zipper up. Without her asking, John picked up the ruched sash that went around the bodice and buttoned it around her waist.

Ivy turned, finally having an opportunity to get a good look at him. He was wearing a black mohair tuxedo with silk peak lapels and a black silk tie. He had trimmed his beard and combed his hair back. He looked, in so many words, Ivy thought, hot. She smiled at him as she put her lipstick and the thumb drive into the clutch. 

“You look great, John.”

He held his arm out to her. 

“We clean up ok. Are you ready?” 

Hooking her arms into his, they stepped out of the bedroom, Ivy teetering precariously.

“As ready as I’ll ever be to go to a Russian mafia wedding with my bodyguard slash roommate slash prison warden slash friend, all while walking on a pencil, basically. 

“Well when you put it like that…” he laughed. “Oh, one more thing. Here.” 

He opened his jacket and pulled out a red leather box and placed it in her hand. 

“John, I--” 

“They were Helen’s. They’ll look nice with the neckline.” 

She opened the box, revealing a dramatic pair of yellow diamond earrings set in gold, the different shapes of stones positioned in a cascading floral pattern of marquise, pear and princess cuts. Ivy gasped, her jaw agape. 

“I can’t wear these. What if I lose one of them?” 

“You can, and you won’t. Just put them on.” 

She took out the small silver studs she’d been wearing for the past month and walked to the hallway mirror to put the diamond earrings in. She didn’t recognize herself. 

“Come on, we’re going to be late.” 

\---

The wedding was an absolutely ludicrous affair. Everything was white. That was their wedding color. White. It was incredibly tacky, and the bride cried the entire time. And she couldn’t understand anything the priest was saying since the ceremony was in Russian. John would nudge her with his knee when it came time to stand. She tried not to seem bored, mainly because she assumed everyone around her was just as dangerous as John, but at one point, she did find herself counting the tiles on the ceiling. 

Finally, people started clapping and she assumed that the couple was, after all this time, wed. 

“Let’s go through the line,” John whispered, his lips nearly grazing her ear. He took her arm, helping her balance. And they waited as group after group went through the queue to wish the couple good luck and congratulate the parents. 

“Ah! Mr. Wick, and my mystery solving little Myska!” 

“Hello, sir, and congratulations,” Ivy spoke calmly and clearly, even though Sokolov made her nervous. Vera stood right next to him and they exchanged a look. 

“You look very beautiful tonight,” Sokolov said, taking her hand and kissing it. Disgusted, she reached her hand into the pocket of her dress and produced the thumb drive with all the evidence against Anna and Mark. She went in for a hug and tucked the thumb drive in his pocket while in his embrace. 

“It’s all there. There’s two of them.” 

“Wonderful Thank you, Miss Falk, now please show Mr. Wick a good time and enjoy the evening.” 

Sokolov shook John’s hand, slipping him an envelope. Her next assignment perhaps? Sokolov probably wouldn’t give John a contract at his daughter’s wedding. He slid it into the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket.

Ivy made eye contact with Vera, giving her a soft nod as she and John embraced and he congratulated her. 

They made their way out of the ornate church, the sudden quietness on the street sort of jarring for them both. A legion of white Mercedes S-Class sedans had lined up to take them to the reception from the church, and John waved one of them down and helped Ivy into the car. 

“I didn’t tell you yet, but did you know, this dress has pockets?” 

John smiled. Helen was right. Give a woman pockets and she’ll conquer the world, he thought. 

“I did know. That was what convinced me to buy it.” 

“Pretty handy,” she pulled her lipstick out and reapplied it. 

“What did you think of the wedding?” 

“It was... vastly different from my own.” 

John laughed. Mine too, little fox. She went on.

“Did the bride ever stop crying?” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“I felt the same way on my wedding day,” she laughed. 

“That’s terrible.”

“I’m happier now.” 

John wondered what kind of man her ex-husband had been if her life living with an assassin and working for the syndicate was better than being married, and they both sat in the car and stewed, not sure what to talk about. They pulled up to the Plaza and John got out, and held his hand out to help her out of the car. 

“Into the lion’s den, huh?” 

John nodded. Yes, little fox, Let’s get this over with. He helped her smooth the wrinkles of her dress, and they walked into the reception arm in arm. 

\----

Ivy had a lot to drink at the wedding. Everyone was very boisterous and welcoming, her champagne glass never empty. Cristal, of course, because Sokolov loved showing off his wealth. 

Being in such a crowded space did take a toll on John after a while, and he stepped out on the terrace to take a break. He held a tumbler of bourbon and looked out over the park for a moment before turning to look back at Ivy laughing with one of the people sitting at their table. He spoke. 

"I can hear you," he sipped his bourbon. 

"Jardani. We have been seeing a lot of each other lately, haven't we?" 

Very sidled up next to him, lighting a long black cigarette and exhaling deeply. 

"Mmmm. Congratulations. You must be happy." 

"Relieved. She married well. He's not in the life." 

"And Gregor allowed that?" 

"He did." 

"How is being in charge of her? She seems to be having a good time tonight." 

"Indeed. It's fine. She...works hard. Gregor thinks she's valuable." 

"But what about you? What do you think of her?" 

"Does it matter? It's not possible." 

Vera snuffed out her cigarette and picked up her champagne glass. 

"Fortune favors the brave, Jardani." 

And with that, she sashayed back inside. 

\---

Ivy was enjoying herself. She was surprised she was, but she had often found in life that where there's food, booze, and music, most of the time there's fun. Several of the men at their table tried to teach her a drinking game, which she didn't understand the rules of, but being somewhat competitive, she had to try. She felt like she had been mainlining vodka all night when John came back to the table. 

"Hey" she whispered. 

"Would you like to dance?" 

He led her to the dance floor, the band having just come back from their break, and they launched into "Skylark." He rested his square hands on the curve of her hip. She was absolutely enchanting, with small tendrils of hair slipping softly out of the chignon at her neck, the champagne and vodka making her skin flush. He was so used to seeing her in a work context, her glasses on her head, a pencil behind her ear, that this different iteration of Ivy was comical to him. 

And of course, Ivy was beguiled by how charming and handsome John was in his tuxedo, having a good time. His dark eyes kind and soft under the muted light, he always stood when she left the table, filled her glass, fussed over the enormous skirt of her dress. 

When they finally left the reception, John put his jacket around her. New York was was cold, even for late October, and Emily could see her breath as they waited for the taxi to take them back to John’s car. Ivy blew on her hands to warm them up. 

“Sorry, you’ll be warm soon.”

“No it’s fine. Thanks for the jacket.”

She nodded off in the car on the way back to Oyster Bay, and John had to shake her a bit to get her up. 

“Let’s get you in bed,” he whispered as he guided her into the house. He removed his jacket from her shoulders and placed it on the back of one of the dining room chairs. 

“But whose bed?” she did in a stage whisper. 

“Your bed, Ivy.” 

“But i want to sleep in your bed.” 

“Fine. I’ll sleep on the couch then.” 

“No.” 

Not now, he thought, when she was not in control of her own movements and inhibitions. He bit the inside of his mouth, remembering what Vera had said to him, and also remembering how much vodka she'd had. 

“I don’t think that's a good idea, Ivy.” 

“I see the way you look at me John. I know.” 

He felt himself blushing. 

“Also, this dress,” she pulled the skirt, exposing her leg through the high slit, “is not a dress that you pick for a friend.” 

“You caught me.” 

“So what should I do about it?”

“Sleep on it. Come on, we’re going to your room.” 

He pulled her up the stairs, her footing atrocious in the double whammy of high heels and too much alcohol. He undid the sash, unclasped and unzipped the dress, and motioned for her to sit so he could take off her shoes. He pulled one and slipped her foot out. She groaned loudly. 

“I’ve been waiting to take those off since I put them on.” 

“Do they hurt?” 

“Yeah. All high heels hurt.” 

He took her foot in his hands and rubbed the bottom of it, trying to loosen the knot from being constricted for hours. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“It’s ok. You know,” she slurred, “Someday, we’re going to have to talk about this, John. It doesn’t have to be now, but someday.” 

He took her other shoe off and walked into the en-suite bathroom, coming back with a bottle of aspirin. She had a coffee mug on her nightstand, and he filled it with water.

“You should be able to take it from here,” he whispered. 

“But what if I can’t?” 

Devious little fox, he thought. He wanted to stay so badly, but he knew now wasn’t the right time, if there was ever a right time. He bent down and kissed her forehead. 

“Goodnight, Ivy.” 

He turned and shut the door. She picked up one of her pillows and screamed into it. She knew he was just trying to be a good man, to not take advantage of her, but she, pardon her french, just wanted to get fucked. She sighed, resigned to being alone tonight, and finished taking the dress off to change into her pajamas. She hung it up in her closet and crawled under the covers, wishing he was there with her.


	12. Chapter 12

The next morning, Ivy hoped it was clear they’d reached a silent understanding that neither of them was going to bring it up. She’d woken up with a a champagne hangover. The worst kind. 

She tried to make herself somewhat presentable and went down the stairs, the clear, crisp light stabbing her brain through her eyes. 

“Here. Drink this. It’ll help.”

John shoved a glass of cloudy liquid over to her from behind the kitchen counter. 

“What is it?” Ivy looked concerned. 

“It’s coconut water. You should eat a banana, too. Potassium.”

“I take it you have experience with this kind of thing?”

Ivy looked skeptical, holding the glass up to the light as if inspecting it for floaters. 

“Yes. Intense dehydration comes with the job sometimes. Drink up.”

Raising the glass to her lips she downed it in one go. 

“Woof. That was disgusting.”

“You’ll feel better though. Why are you up so early?” 

“Can’t sleep anymore. Too uncomfortable.”

“Mmm.”

“I thought I’d get to work.”

“Sokolov told me that you’re to take today off. So. Is there anything you’ve been wanting to do?” 

That left Ivy feeling suspicious. Day off. 

“Why...would he do that?”

“I don’t know. Can’t pretend to know his motivation for anything. Maybe as a courtesy?”

She sighed, shoulders slumping. She could use a day off, as even though she enjoyed herself the evening before, it was still work. She hadn’t had a day to do whatever she wanted in weeks. 

“Ok. Wow.” 

John could tell Ivy looked overwhelmed. 

“Are you working today?” She asked. 

“I am not.”

This was new territory. Normally, one of them had work to do. Ivy grabbed a banana from a ceramic bowl John kept on the counter. She broke it into pieces and ate it quickly. John busied himself with making more coffee. 

“What would you normally do on a day off?” 

Ivy laughed sarcastically, “John. I don’t really have any days off.”

Fair enough. 

“Ok. What would you WANT to do on a day off?”

Ivy thought hard. 

“I honestly can’t say. I guess I could read. I wouldn’t mind taking the bike out.”

“Ok, well then you should do that.”

This put Ivy into an awkward position. Would he...be coming with? 

“well, what do you do in your free time?” she stammered.

John smiled at how flustered she was. He opened the basement door.

“Follow me.” 

Ivy got up and followed him down into the basement. To the left was treadmill she used pretty regularly, but she respected John’s privacy and had never ventured into the office. He pulled the key from the top of the door frame.

“Very secure John.”

“Shhh.”

He opened the door and Ivy was taken aback by dozens of antique books stacked on top of one another next to an organized work bench with different types of thread, cloth, and paper. 

“I do this. Personally. Actually, hold on, I have something for you.” 

He opened the metal cabinet, where Ivy could see different types of glue and adhesive and some boxes of books that probably needed to be fixed. He pulled a maroon leather bound volume off the shelf and handed it to her. 

The front was stamped in gold script:

_All at once  
A fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my dream,  
And I am in the wilderness alone.  
-Bryant _

Touched, she opened the front cover to find it was lined with marveled part, her name in the corner. The book was blank. 

“John this is beautiful work. I had no idea you did this.”

“Idle hands,” he said with a shrug, “I wanted to practice a decorative stitch on the spine. I know you go through notebooks fast, so I wanted...to..” he drifted off as they made eye contact. Her steely eyes looked amused. 

“Thank you. This is...this is gorgeous. So you make books and you fix books. Old books” 

That explains the library upstairs. 

“Yes. It’s meditative.” 

“I see. How long have you been doing it?”

“This is how I worked when I was retired. I restored and sold them.”

Ivy ran her fingers over the shiny leather of the cover. How did he figure it out? She knew he’d see her tattoo before, but it was a phrase that could have meant anything. She felt embarrassed and stood. 

“Well, bike ride. You’re sure this is ok?”

He nodded. 

“Thanks. I’ll be back later.”


	13. Chapter 13

Feeling the effects of John’s miracle cure, she swallowed two aspirin and got her helmet and keys from the key rack in the mudroom. John was still downstairs to the best of her knowledge, and she finally felt the need to pull out her leather jacket after all this time. She’d spent a fortune on it, but it was one of those things where she felt a little knot in her stomach when she saw it in the window at Allsaints. Shiny black leather with subtle quilting on the sleeves, the hardware was gold, which she felt added a bit of interest to an otherwise basic piece. It felt good to put it on again and she opened the garage, made sure to zip up the pockets with her wallet and phone, and she turned the key, opening the clutch and getting on her way. 

She thought since she was already on Long Island, it might be nice to drive out to East Hampton. She’d lived in New York for over a decade, and had never done much exploring outside of the city. Oyster Bay was certainly cute, and the views from John’s house couldn’t be beat, so she thought it might be a nice little day trip. 

Ivy felt almost her old self again, the Bonneville purring perfectly under her body, the heat from her engine radiating back at her from the road. She loved to ride because it forced her to pay attention to everything the road, the other vehicles on the road. She’d been riding for nearly 10 years, and didn’t have much of an opportunity to get off of city streets, so this was an absolute dream for her, especially early on a Sunday. 

She parked in front of a coffee shop, planning to get lunch and take it with her. She settled on a sandwich and a bottle of iced coffee. She drove to the beach and sat down on the sand, knowing she’d regret damp pants on her ride home, but the sand just looked so inviting. 

Growing up in a landlocked part of the country, anything that wasn’t flat, green land peppered with corn or cows was interesting to her. She unwrapped her sandwich and thought about John. She’d never done anything to truly upset him, so she’d never seen the other side. The nonspeaking, ghostly, eyes-burning-black side of John. 

She wondered what he was like when he worked. She’d only ever seen him leave, and he typically returned long after she went to sleep, so she’d never seen him in action. Never seen him quietly enter to approach a target. Well, of course, other than her. 

Ivy had a lot of feelings about the way she and John had met, most of them net negative. She knew it was just a job, but what had he done to other people? The people she wrote up files on? What about those people? 

She finished her lunch and checked her phone. John had texted her asking if she planned to be home for dinner. She’d been sitting on the beach for well over and hour and thought it high time to head back home.

John immediately noticed she smelled like the ocean when she came back in. He’d spent the day finishing fixing the tome of Russian folk tales, finally, and was contemplating dinner when Ivy returned. They exchanged a look and she went upstairs to change. She looked like she had new life breathed into her, her cheeks rosy from the wind and her eyes bright. 

Once in her room, ivy noticed it had been tidied, her dress from last night probably on the way to the dry cleaner as Doris did her Sunday ritual of washing all the linens and taking the dry cleaning with her as she left to drop it off on Monday. Well. John’s dry cleaning.

Ivy sat in the armchair near her freshly made bed, the quilt folded and tucked at the bottom. She was growing tired of the feeling of living in limbo. She felt like she’d been staying in a hotel for the past few months and while there was a lot to like about John’s house, she knew in her heart this wasn’t sustainable, but what was the end? This was the question that hung heavy in the air, and she didn’t know how to go about answering it. 

Ivy noticed her notebook from John had been brought up and was on the nightstand. She picked it up and ran her hands over the smooth creamy vellum pages. More interestingly, Ivy thought, what did John want? 

She knew though. That was the thing. Whatever it was that could be between them waited on a forbidden tree branch it waited to be plucked and devoured, and she thought she might want that. But the complications arose when she thought about what might happen if she decided she didn’t want that. She didn’t think she could appeal to Sokolov’s humanity to get him to let her go, and she knew that John would never hurt her, but sometimes things fizzle. Fade away. And, she thought darkly, you haven’t been in a relationship in years. Ok, now you're just depressing yourself on purpose, she thought. 

Really, what she needed was a haircut, and her winter clothes. She’d been cycling through the same few pieces since she came to Oyster Bay. Fall couldn’t last forever, and the climate in John's house was simply...cold. At a minimum, she had to get back to her apartment to get her parka. Knowing what she had to do, she headed downstairs. 

John kept opening and closing the fridge. He felt a bit like a captive animal, and that same uncomfortable feeling he had when Ivy first moved in was back. He couldn’t stop thinking about last night. The flash of mischief in Ivy’s eyes on the dance floor, her sloppy steps up to her bedroom. Trying to get him to stay. He wished he was the type of person who could have just said “yes” in the moment. Consequences be damned. But he wasn’t. Everything had to be calculated, and while his time with Ivy had made him feel a little fire in his belly, he knew it wouldn’t be this way forever. 

“Ivy.” he said simply. 

“Hi. Um. So. I. Um. I am...running out of clothes. I need my parka, and I need to get my mail. I also really need a haircut. So...I need you to take me to my apartment. Or I need you to let me go by myself. Or send a car. I don’t know. There’s a myriad of ways this could work.” 

“Sure. You should have said something.” 

“Oh. Ok. When can we go?” she seemed legitimately excited. 

He never wanted to tell her she’d probably never get to go home and be free of Sokolov’s demands. He had told John he had a backlog of files that would keep them both busy for years. And, he thought, he hated that she was treating him like her father, asking permission to leave the house. He hated almost as much as he hated the fact that this brilliant woman was basically a Syndicate crony now. It made him feel old and dirty in a way he did not care for, but he supposed this was the role he’d been cast once he took the contract to bring her to Sokolov and he laid the game plan out. 

“Tomorrow?”

—-

In typical Ivy and John fashion, neither of them spoke much on the way to the city. There wasn’t much parking near her building, so John offered to go buy them coffee while she got what she needed and took care of what she needed to. Ivy had been able to get her stylist to squeeze her in for a trim at noon, so they had plenty of time. 

She ran up the steps, throwing open the door and breathing deeply the smell of home. Doris had been doing an excellent job of keeping it cleaner than Ivy ever did. Her hair appointment, so she pulled a couple duffel bags she had stowed in the closet, bringing them into her bedroom. She packed up the rest of her clothes and shoes, which admittedly wasn’t much, but she knew she’d need bulky sweaters and warm woolen socks in the coming months. 

She thought about packing up her coffee maker and forcing John to give up the machine they used now, with its many buttons, but she didn’t want to hurt his feelings. She opted to go through the mail. She didn’t know if she should start having it forwarded, but for security reasons, she didn’t. The stack was huge. 

She opened several alumni association newsletters. Bills that she had already paid. So many coupons, and at the very bottom of the stack, a letter from her student loan lender. Curious, she ran a blade-like finger down the seam and ripped open the letter. 

_Dear Ms. Falk,_

_Thank you for your payment in full. This letter is to confirm that your balance as of 9/12/19 of $33,239.01 has been paid in full. No further payments shall be debited from your checking account ending in 23192._

_Sincerely,_

_Pathways Lending Solutions._

Confused, she flipped the paper over in her hands, expecting to see “haha fuck you,” written on it somewhere. She hadn’t done this. Her mother certainly didn’t have the money. The letter was a month old, and she realized that she’d been so distracted that she had no idea that the money for payment wasn’t being debited from her account anymore. 

She heard a knock at the door. 

“It’s John.” 

She got up and opened it for him, letter in hand. She had an idea of who did it. John put the coffees on the desk in the dining room, and picked up his to take a long sip. 

“John. Can I ask you something?” Ivy blurted. 

He nodded, putting his cup down. 

“Did...you pay off my student loan?” 

John was silent. She knew the answer though. 

“WHY! That’s so much money!” she screeched. John stood stoically in front of her, her protests falling on deaf ears. 

“I wanted to. I wouldn’t have been working at breakneck pace if it hadn’t been for your findings.” 

“Oh, so blood money paid this off? Fuck! Why did you do that? Now...I’m….” 

“Now you’re what?” 

“Now...I….I owe you.” 

“It was a gift, little fox.” 

Ivy froze. Little fox? She must have looked mortified, because John blushed. John Wick. Blushed. He was as pink as a summer peach. 

“That was too forward. I’m sorry.”

“I just...I...owed them. Now I owe you. It’s not paid. The balance has just been transferred. That was…”

She trailed off, not sure if she should keep going.

“That was my stopping point. I was going to pay my loans off and...well, I was going to leave.”

“You know what would happen if you left.”

“Yeah. I do. And I love our friendship John. I love working with you, but I can’t do this for the rest of my life. This isn’t sustainable.”

John pursed his lips. So she had been thinking about it too. He could never hold up his end of the bargain with Sokolov. How terrible it was that she was bound to this life, and how terrible it was to think of a reality without her.

“I know. We need to decide what...can be done.”

What he wanted to say was Ivy, I have feelings for you and I want to explore them. I want to do this, and I want to start it now. Sokolov be damned. He often worried about disappointing her, even though he felt he was little more than a friend to her. The fantasies in his head had become increasingly intimate and boring since, having run out of new and interesting ways to pleasure her in his mind’s eye. That’s what happens when you think about something once a minute every minute you’re awake for 3 months. Now he wanted the boring stuff. He wanted to braid her hair, hands running down her neck and back. To take off her shoes off for her after she came in, sweaty and flushed from being on her bike. He wanted to fall asleep on the couch together after staying up too late. The things people earn with continued intimacy. He did have a question though, and he needed to find out once and for all if he should give up this elaborate fantasy. 

“Why would you pay and then try to leave?”

“It’s the only way out of this, and my mom would have to pay them in the event of my death if they weren’t paid off. I couldn’t do that to her. Sokolov has no plans to let me go, and I can’t keep living like this…kept woman.” 

Having never been to college, John didn’t really understand how any of what Ivy was describing worked, but he was bothered by the fact that Ivy seemed to have resigned herself to a life she didn’t want, so much so that she’d planned her death. 

“We will talk to Sokolov.”

Actually who he planned to talk to was Vera, but he wasn’t going to tell Ivy that. She needed a path out. A path back to a normal life. A path away from him. He felt his heart breaking, thinking about the house being empty again, the absence of hurricane Ivy that followed her everywhere. Seltzer cans, Twizzlers wrappers, Dixon Ticonderoga Pencils, notebooks with broken spines from overuse. He’d miss all that. None of this felt fair. 

“I mean, I could kiss you, John. You’ve changed my life.” she looked back at the letter in her hands, intending to read it again, her cheeks hot with embarrassment.

Oh fuck it, he thought. 

“Then why don’t you?” 

She looked up, John’s face so close to hers, like a question she needed to answer. She reached up to brush his hair out of his eyes. She realized that she had never touched him first, and this personal act felt...good. He caught her hand and brought it to his lips. Pressing a kiss into her palm, she gasped. I’m sorry, he said to a god he didn’t really believe in, i’m sorry for this indulgence. I don’t deserve her.

“So. ‘little fox.’” 

“Hush.” 

He planted dozens of kisses up her arm, planting a final one on her shoulder. He pulled away, his warm, kind eyes boring into her. She took his hand and put it on her chest. It fit perfectly, and his fingers made contact with her chest, longer than the fabric of her v-neck sweater. 

“You’re making my heart beat fast.” 

“Mine too,” he breathed, moving his hand to caress her neck, allowing his hand to gently drop to his side. 

And so they stood there. Neither of them having the courage to move forward, neither willing to break out of the barricade of the moment. The air between them was electric. Her eyes darting about the room, not sure where to land. She knew if she made eye contact with him, she’d be toast. She was calculating in her head. They both wanted the same thing. How difficult, she wondered, would taking something she wanted make doing things she had to do? Could they live together after this? 

But, as it often happens in these delicious moments, his phone rang. 

John broke the stare as he turned to take the call, walking to the patio mouth “sorry.” Ivy shuddered, dumbfounded. Her own hands softly touching her neck, relishing the moment. 

Noting the time on the hall clock, she scribbled a note to John telling him they’d catch up later and to put the bag into his car, and that she expected to be back around noon. Thank god, she thought. The air was getting a little thick in there. 

Legs wobbly, she walked to the salon.


	14. Chapter 14

It was Sokolov. He didn’t know why he thought it might ever be someone else, but it was him. 

“We have a mutiny on our hands.”

John didn’t speak. 

“I believe I know who they are, but until I know for sure and we will quickly and surgically remove them, I suggest you take our little myshka to your safe house. Info she uncovered caused the exposure. I will meet you in a few days. The usual place. Good luck, John.” 

The call ended abruptly, and he immediately looked through the apartment trying to find her. They needed to move fast. He grabbed the bags off the table and slung one over his shoulder. Muttering under his breath he read the note. Back by noon. He looked at his watch. 11:07. He could wait. He was pretty sure this place was not on widespread Syndicate radar. 

He packed up the car, taking a glock out of the trunk and stowing in his glove box. And he pulled to the front and waited, refreshing his phone over and over to see if there were any other updates. At 12:01, she turned the corner, a renewed spring in her step, her hair bouncing alluringly behind her. Ivy noticed the car immediately. She felt a wave of disappointment come over her. 

“John. Leaving so soon?” 

“Get in.”

“But—“

“Get. In. Please.”

Rather than argue with him, she got in. The energy radiating off of him was chaotic, and she opted to not say anything for the time being. He merged into traffic, stealing a quick glance at her. The haircut she’d come into the city for looked great. 

“Your hair looks nice.”

Ivy’s hand flew to her head, running her hand through her freshly washed and cut hair. 

“Thanks. Do you want to tell me where we’re going? Oyster Bay is that way.”

He didn’t answer. 

“Are you going to kill me?” 

“Jesus Christ. No. Stop asking me that. I told you when I met you I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you and that includes me.”

The engine roared as they made their way down the highway, out of New York and into the suburbs. 

“So, where are we going?” She pressed again, seeing signs for Albany. 

“The Syndicate has been compromised. We are going to a safe house.”

She nodded. She figured this would happen at some point. More importantly, she wanted to talk about what had happened in her dining room just an hour ago. 

“Do you want to talk about what happened?” 

“What happened?”

“You know, ‘little fox,’” she imitated his voice “the night of the wedding, the increasingly melancholy look you give me every time I come down the stairs," she smirked.

“It slipped. I….that’s what I call you in my head. I don’t know why.”

He did know though. A little fox in the snow. He wasn't going to explain it though. 

“I suppose your lips slipped into my hand, too, huh?”

He grunted. 

“Typical,” she said dissmissively, “I’m taking a nap. Wake me up when we get there.” 

She put her sunglasses on and rolled her sweatshirt up so she had a pillow to lean against the car door. She swore, though in a half dazed state, she felt John’s hand on her knee. Just for a fleeting moment. 

—

John stopped near a gas station a few hours later. He took the license plate off the car and put a different set on, then pulled in to refuel. He didn’t think they were being followed, but he wanted to take whatever precautions he could. 

He didn’t think Ivy was actually asleep when he tapped her shoulder, either. 

“Hand me your phone. We can’t have anyone following us.” 

She sighed and fished in her purse, handing it to him. He wrapped it in some trash and put it in the middle of the garbage can. 

She closed the window and pressed her head back into the sweatshirt. At least the leaves were changing, and the horizon was brilliantly painted yellow and orange. People did this like...for fun, driving upstate. She wondered where they were going, and if she would survive. She trusted John, with her life. She just hoped he knew what he was doing. 

—-

“Speculator?” 

She read the sign. 

“Yes.” 

“Huh.” 

He pulled off onto a dirt road, the car cutting loudly through the woods until they got to a cabin perched next to a lake. Blinking in the golden hour sunset, overtaken by the remaining orange and yellow from the rapidly falling leaves, Ivy put her sunglasses down to the bridge of her nose and got out of the car. The air had a distinctly late autumn nip, and she pulled her beloved orange cardigan around her closely. 

“There’s no heat so we have to keep the fire going. There is water, but it's well water. Boil anything you plan to drink.” 

He handed her duffel bag to her in passing, making his way up the path to the front door. Ivy's head was spinning. 

She followed in step, watching him punch a key code into an electronic lock. 

“You put three fingers up to it, then hit 7566, then star. This will be close quarters, but my hope is that we will not be here for long. I’m going to go chop some wood,” he added, taking his jacket off and hanging it off the patio railing, “feels like it might be cold tonight.”

Being at her own place just hours ago felt like a cruel joke. She pushed the door open all the way. The cabin was quite quaint, very clean and absolutely freezing. Avoiding the feeling to go and watch John chop wood, she took herself on a little tour.

She looked around the kitchen. Same ridiculous coffee maker. There were two bedrooms, one up a short flight of stairs in a lofted area, the other next to the fireplace. The decor was simple, unfussy. She sat on the grey linen couch, admiring the view of the lake. She noticed a photo on one of the end tables. That must be her, she thought, realizing she had never seen a photo of her up close. John kept a few around the house, mostly in his bedroom, and she'd seen them in passing, but she'd never gotten a good look at her. It felt intrusive. She picked up the heavy silver frame and studied it closer. She was beautiful, both of them smiling so big. She recognized the beach they were standing on as the harbor in Oyster Bay. No wonder he went to the beach so often. Ivy wondered if anyone would ever love her that much, feeling a twinge of sadness for what John had lost. She put the photo down gently, feeling as if she would be caught with it and have to explain what she was doing. 

She thought back to their almost kiss. Their almost moment. She sighed dreamily, but knew better than to get her hopes up on a reprisal. John had let his guard down. She didn’t think he’d make the same mistake again, especially since they seemed to be on the run from something. He hadn't really told her what was happening. 

Noticing a pile of wood next to the fireplace, she stood up and busied herself with making a fire. It would be getting dark soon, and the sooner the fire was going, the sooner the cabin would warm up. Who has a cabin with no heat but a luxury coffee maker? John Wick, apparently. She rolled her eyes, looking for some tinder to ignite the thing. 

She piled the wood into the fireplace grate and checked to make sure the flue was open. she shredded a few pages from her notebook and crumpled it at the bottom. She found a box of matches and lit one. Blowing softly, the first log caught. She gave it a few more minutes, and then added a second one. Perfect, she thought, watching the flames consume the wood, the heady smell of campfire smoke filling her nostrils. 

—-

John watched Ivy start the fire from the doorway, a cord of firewood balanced in his arms. Such care, he thought, to get it right. She stood up to admire her work, pushing her hair over one shoulder and pulling it into a quick braid. John imagined using it as a lead to take her to bed and finish what they’d started earlier. Maybe someday, little fox, when it’s less dangerous. 

She picked her bag up and turned around.

“Good god, you’re like a mouse!”

“This is probably enough wood for tonight. Thank you for starting the fire.”

“Please tell me you have something stronger than water stowed in one of these cabinets?” 

He put the wood down next to the fireplace and brushed the debris off his shirt and the sweat off his brow.

“I should.”

He began opening and closing cabinets, before finally producing a bottle of bourbon. He blew the dust off the bottle and pointed the neck at her. 

“Here.”

“Thanks,” she unscrewed the top and took a long swig. 

“...did you want a glass?”

“Sure. Now you want to tell me what is going on?”

“Since you are...an asset to Sokolov and the Syndicate, he is of the belief that those who are attempting a hostile takeover will come for you, especially given what you know. He is very close to figuring out who they are, and I expect he will call on me to deal with them accordingly once he does.” 

John poured himself a three finger bourbon and continued. 

“We're stuck here until we receive further instruction. Which means I may need to leave you here alone. Ivy, do you know how to use a gun? 

“I grew up on a farm, John. I know how to shoot at gun.” 

He emptied the last of the bourbon into her glass and went into one of the bedrooms, taking the bottle with him. He came back with a .44 magnum, loaded it, opened the screen door, and set the bottle on the guardrail that ran around the porch. 

“Show me,” he motioned for her to come outside. 

He handed her the gun. She turned the safety off, planted her feet and took aim. 

Breathing in deeply, she squeezed the trigger, the bullet shattering the bottle into thousands of pieces. 

John exhaled and gave a curt nod. 

“Good.”

Ivy wasn’t sure who John was talking to, her or himself. 

“Do it again,” he put up an empty jar that had been sitting on the counter. 

She sighed and took her stance. Breath, squeeze, be calm. She heard her father’s voice whispering in her ear. 

She shot it, dead in the center. 

John put a hand on her shoulder. She might be a better shot than he was. 

"Very good."

Ivy turned the safety on and tried to hand the gun back to him. He held his hand up and turned to leave, getting back in the car to head to town. She'd finished the bourbon, so at a minimum, they needed more of that.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey hi! Content warnings for this chapter: implied past abuse. 
> 
> Also, I promise, we're getting close. :-)

Speculator, or what she had seen of it, reminded her of New Liberty but with better, more picturesque scenery. It stirred her memories, and disbanded the wall she’d built up for survival. She thought of her mother tucked away in the farmhouse she grew up in. Her sister making her feel guilty for leaving every time they spoke, telling her that she’d seen Gavin at the HyVee and that he was asking about her. God, she thought, what would it be like to have a family on her side?

She knew how to handle empty, wild land, but the gentle heartbeat of the city soothed her, and she felt like she needed soothing this night. This place reminded her too much of who she should have been, and it was getting under her skin.

Ivy languidly sprawled on the couch, enjoying the heat from the fire while she read her book. After months in John’s overly air conditioned refrigerator of a home, it felt good to sweat. She heard the door open, John finally returning. 

He put a few days worth of food away, a big bottle of Buffalo Trace bourbon hitting the counter with a weighty clunk. 

“Hey.” 

“Hey.” 

He opened the bottle and filled two glasses. He brought both over to the coffee table in front of the picture window and slid one in her direction. 

“Thanks.” 

“You haven’t said much.” 

“Yeah. It’s...weird being here.” 

“What do you mean?” 

She bit her lip, the smoky, vanilla taste of bourbon lingered on her lips. 

“It just...this town reminds me of New Liberty. There’s not many who live here, but I bet I’ve met every single person who does. Small towns. They’re similar but the names are different.” 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

“Well, maybe. No. Not really. It’s just...everyone in my family treats me like i’m this...unhinged woman for leaving, and I’ve been gone for years.” 

He nodded, encouraging her to go on. She inhaled deeply. She didn’t know what she wanted from him, with him, but telling him the whole thing would at least ease her burden. 

“He...broke my jaw. After it happened. And neither my mother or sister seem to care about that. He...refuses to sign the divorce papers.”

John felt a slow anger begin to rise in his belly. He tried to bury it for Ivy’s sake, but he was already running through the list of associates he knew were in Chicago he could call on for a favor. Just a quick trip to Iowa to hold a gun to his head while he signed his divorce papers.

“I...wish I could take that pain away from you, Ivy. I’m sorry.”

She put her head in her hands.

“It was a long time ago. I should...Sorry, I’m just going into the bedroom anyway,” she said sheepishly, skulking into the bedroom just to the left, taking her bourbon with her. She closed the door quietly and sat in the middle of the bed, downing the liquor and hoping it would lull her to sleep. 

They spent another night apart, burning for each other. Ivy silently cried about the past, and John made a list for the future. Get Ivy out of the Syndicate, get her divorce papers back, have her in every room in his house, and then go from there. Either way, they both slept rotten. 

—-

Ivy was up early the next morning. She made coffee and oatmeal. Standing on the porch, barefoot despite the frost, she watched the lake while the sun rose, steam rising merrily out of her coffee mug, the light blinding her. She wished she and John were here under better circumstances. She wished she hadn’t told him about Gavin. The world weighed heavy on her.

When John came out of his bedroom, he saw Ivy shivering on the porch, coffee cup in hand, those tiny black cotton shorts she slept in giving the illusion that she wasn’t wearing any pants. Then suddenly, she took her cardigan off, peeled her t shirt and sleep shorts off her lithe body, draping her clothes on the patio railing, and marched down to the dock. He wasn’t sure if he was aroused or worried. 

She stood at the edge of the dock for a moment, the new sun climbing higher in the sky with each passing moment. She put her arms out to the side and raised them over her head. She gave a little jump and dove straight into the water. 

John’s heart stopped, he opened the door, but didn’t leave the house. He waited a moment, unsure of what she was doing, and also feeling incredibly voyeuristic. Her head popped up to the surface of the water and she laid back and floated for a few minutes. Until she couldn’t take the chill. She had to remember she was alive, that she had some free will in this world. She rose out of the water, with a grace he’d never seen before from her, like a naiad. He was definitely awake now, her naked body in full view in the early light, water glimmering on skin. She put her cardigan around her and balled up the rest of her clothes, letting the sun beat down on her for a moment. It was delicious to be out in nature, even if the circumstances were less than ideal. 

Make yourself useful, dummy, he thought. She’s going to be freezing when she gets back in here. Start the fire. Tearing himself away from the spectacle outside, he busied himself, stirring the embers left from the night before, getting the fire going again. The screen door slammed and she went straight to the bathroom and hopped in the shower, leaving a trail of lake water behind her. 

The fire was satisfactorily roaring by the time she’d finished showering. John had brewed more coffee and was sitting on the couch in a sweater and his usual sleep getup. 

“I got you a WiFi hotspot yesterday. It’s next to the door. I figured you’d want to keep working.”

“Thank you. I...uh...wanted to apologize for everything I told you last night. I shouldn’t have burdened you with that, not now.”

John frowned. “Don’t apologize. There’s no need.”

“Mmm. I better get to work.” 

She filled her mug again and found the hotspot. She had it up and running in just a few minutes, and dialed into the VPN sokolov told her to use. John loved the way she pulled one leg up onto the chair, sitting a bit like a little monkey. 

“What are you working on?”

“I’m honestly not sure. Nothing about what Sokolov shared with me this time makes any sense. It’s a broken puzzle. None of the pieces fit together correctly.”

“What do you mean?” 

“At first I thought this was a good ol’ fashioned skimming again, but it’s not. It’s almost as if someone is trying to move the payment network of the Syndicate by diverting payments somewhere else. Because all I have are copies of paper records, I don’t know where they’re going. I doubt I can get 0nyx to look into it because I think it’s too big of a job for one person”

John was quiet for a moment. He chose his words carefully. 

“Whoever it is, it’s likely they’re behind this,” he gestured around, “I...have a few guesses of who that might be, but they’re far-fetched.”

“Heh. Try me.”

“Sokolov is not liked among the other delegates within the Syndicate’s board. After the High Table fell, he was in the right place at the right time to be named chairman. He was chosen under duress by the other members, as he had the deepest bench of associates at the time.”

“Do you know any of the other board members?” 

“One or two. I don’t have a lot of insight into the inner workings anymore. That’s probably another reason Sokolov is disliked. The Syndicate hasn’t been able to replicate the level of service and governance the High Table had, and that’s 100% his fault.”

“Do they have names?” Ivy asked dryly. 

John sighed. 

“If I tell you this, you know...a lot. I don’t know if I’ll be able to get you out if you find out much more. I will protect you, but there may not be a path out.. Do you want that? Think carefully.”

“I think I am already all the way in, John. I’m sitting in your safe house. How loyal to Sokolov are you?” 

“I’m loyal to whoever hires me until the terms of the contract are met.”

“Got it. So. Their names.” 

“Luciana Giametta and Roderick Doyle are two I can absolutely confirm are board members.”

“Go on.”

“Doyle is ex-IRA, runs a ‘security company’ of private mercenaries. They’re among the best in the world.”

“So, a nasty guy.”

“Yes, and Giametta, you know all about them.”

“But I thought Elio Giametta was the head of their family. Who is Luciana?”

“Being the head of the family and on the board of the Syndicate are not necessarily the same thing. Luciana was probably given the board position to keep her from murdering her brother. She is...unpleasant.” 

“Ok, so how many others are there?”

Ivy had opened a new document on her laptop and was taking notes, he noticed. 

“There are twelve members total. I have inklings of who the others might be, but can’t confirm.”

“Can you go to your little assassin underworld and find out?”

“Not without compromising your safety.”

“Got it. Ok. Fuck. So who do I actually work for? The Syndicate or the bratva?”

“I’m not sure. The lines seem pretty blurred at the moment. Looking at your past assignments, it seems more like the bratva. He hasn’t had you do anything relating to another group or directly related to the dealings of the Syndicate, has he?”

She shook her head no. 

“That’s not good. Once they figure out Sokolov has been using both of us exclusively to do his dirty work, that looks like loyalty I don’t think either of us actually have. Would you agree?”

“Yes. Need I remind you that I wanted nothing to do with this entire thing in the first place? All of my assignments have been concerning the Giamettas or, come to think it it, Doyle Security Partners. FUCK!” 

“I know, little fox, I know.”

Ivy shot him a dirty look at the use of his pet name for her. 

“Deal with it. So, the others I think are on the board are from cartels, possibly terrorist organizations, and a couple from various gang organizations that decided they wanted to run a little more formally. I have never worked a contract for any of these people that involved facetime, so their names I don’t know. But Doyle and I have a long history together.”

“Well, none of this adds up to a bright future for either one of us. What should we do? I have kept paper records of every single job we’ve worked on together. I thought...well...I thought this might happen.”

“Sokolov is going to call soon. With the names of who he thinks is responsible. And I can bet you that the first two will be Roderick Doyle and Luciana Giametta. We need to decide if we want to go down with a sinking ship.”

“Well. Of course I don’t want to do that. Can we get to them first? Tell them what we know?” 

They could. Doyle had an outpost in Albany. 

“Yes, but we would have to leave right now,” John glanced at his watch. A little past 7. It was 2 hours to Albany. 

John threw back the rest of his coffee and left to dress. Ivy rolled on her socks and pulled her shoes on, tossing the hot spot and the laptop into her tote bag. 

They met again in the living room. John wordlessly handed her the gun she had practiced with. She nodded and checked the safety before popping it into her purse. Exchanging a final look, they left together.


	16. Chapter 16

Two hours later, they stood in front of an imposing glass building emblazoned with “Doyle Security Group” in harsh, black type. 

They walked through the enormous glass door, having left their weapons in the car. The worst case scenario was a shootout. The best case was they got some of Doyle’s mercenaries to protect them. 

A bright-eyed blond woman sat at the front desk.

“How can I assist you today?” 

John stepped forward. 

“We were hoping to meet with Mr. Doyle.”

“I don’t think that will be possible. I can make an appointment for you? Perhaps you can come back another day?”

“Fortis Fortuna Adiuvat,” he leaned into the desk and whispered, never breaking eye contact with her. She understood immediately. 

“One moment.”

She opened a drawer and took out a satellite phone. She pressed a button and locked the door behind them. 

“Please, have a seat,” she motioned to the leather chairs across the reception area. 

John and Ivy sat, her clutching her bag. Her heart beating fast. John must have sensed it, as he put a hand on her back. 

“It’ll be ok.” 

“I hope. If this doesn’t go well, two delegates at the Syndicate will be out for us, won’t they?”

“More like three,” he smiled, “Doyle owes me a favor.”

——

The receptionist, who introduced herself as Ingrid, approached and asked them to follow her after about an hour of waiting. She unlocked the door to her right and led them down a long hallway. 

“Mr. Doyal is landing now,” she explained. They heard the gentle whirr of a helicopter approaching. Ingrid deposited them in a conference room and returned with a tray of glasses and a pitcher of water. She set it in the middle of the table and left with a small smile. 

Ivy breathed deeply as the door opened. A towering man with rich black hair and piercing blue eyes entered the room. He was, in a word, enormous. Taller than John. They stood. 

“John Wick. I’ll be damned. And you must be Ivy Falk,” he had the faintest Irish accent. 

John held his hand out, and Doyle shook it, and turned to Ivy. They exchanged a brief nod.

“Please, have a seat.” 

He poured water for everyone and slid the glasses down to them. 

“So. What brings you in?” 

“We have information,” John said firmly. He had his hand on Ivy’s knee, hoping that she would get the signal to not say anything until he let go. 

“What kind of information? My hope is that you did not drag me away from my wife this morning for something that isn’t actionable on my part.” He sounded bored. 

“It’s regarding the board. Regarding Sokolov.”

Doyle took a long drink. He deliberately set the glass down and spoke.

“I see. What has that Russian bastard gotten up to now?”

After a beat, John let go of Ivy’s knee. She cleared her throat.

“Well, he has retained me as a research associate. A Syndicate research associate. Mr. Wick and I believe he has not been...honest about the distribution of work and has been using Syndicate resources to execute solely on bratva business and possibly paying for it with Syndicate funding, and as I understand it...that’s not supposed to happen. 

She took a quick breath and continued.

“There must be people who know, since there is, based on paper accounting records, a large sum of money missing from the take. I believe either the board has decided to remove Sokolov, or Sokolov himself is moving the money and acting like he is not.. Either way, there is...ah...trouble in paradise.” 

Ivy opened her laptop and showed Doyle the scans. She highlighted the suspect transactions. Doyle pulled the laptop closer to him. 

“So what do you believe I should do, Miss Falk?”

“May I speak freely?”

“Do.”

“I believe this is either your work, or you support it. There are a number of payments to your company that seem, excuse me, rather preposterous in terms of how large they are for the services allegedly rendered.”

“Ah.” Doyle smiled. Half of one of his front teeth were missing, “Now I see.” 

“I suppose you have.” 

“What’s to stop you from telling Sokolov?”

John interjected quickly before Ivy could speak. 

“That’s why we’re here. We don’t want to appear loyal to a party we are not loyal to. We know what’s coming. We want a ticket out before it does.”

Doyal leaned back in his chair, calculating. Ivy noticed the number of divots and pocks in his face, probably from a lifetime of endless war. She wondered why these people couldn’t just wallow in their ill gotten money and keep it together. It felt like it was always something. 

“Are you requesting protection or to get out out? Two very different things,” he said quietly. 

John’s hand flew back to her knee. 

“What are the terms of either?”

“Protection means you both fight for me to ascend to the head of the syndicate, regardless of the scale, and to get out out, well...that’s another thing entirely.”

“Name it.”

“Obliteration of the Syndicate, whole cloth. We need to start again.”

“No. I’ve done that once before. I’m too old to do it again. Need I remind you of Istanbul?”

“I knew you were going to bring that up.”

They stared each other down for a moment. 

“You know my level of skill, Doyle. It’s either I go to you, or I go to Luciana, and then down the list after that. We came here first because you seem the most level-headed. Your choice.”

“Fine. You and you, work for me, solely me, Doyle Security, for now.”

Doyle hit a button on the technology panel in the conference room. He took Ivy’s Sokolov issued laptop and handed it to the man who walked into the room in black tactical gear. He handed her a new machine and both of them a new cell phone. 

“Do you require anything else?”

“An escort to Speculator. Maybe some additional fire power.”

“Grand. Will you be returning to your home base?” 

“Will you make it safe?”

“I can.”

“For what?”

“Miss Falk stays here to work.”

Doyle looked at her wolfishly. Ivy tried to stifle a shudder.

“Absolutely not.”

“Was worth a try. I will station 4 Doyle Security associates to your home. Miss Falk, you may go with Alex here. He will help you pack up the toys for you and Mr. Wick.” 

Doyle stood, and Ivy followed with her new computer and left, the door slamming behind them. 

“Doyle. I do have one additional request.”

“I certainly hope you are as good as you used to be John. It’s only because of the incident in Istanbul I chose to even take this meeting.”

John raised an eyebrow. 

“Do you have any associates stationed in Chicago?”

“I do.”

“I have a problem that needs solving nearby.”

——

Alex led Ivy to a room filled top to bottom with weapons of all shapes and sizes. 

“Do you have any preferences?”

“Ah. I don’t know, honestly.” 

Alex shrugged, and began to pull out hard cases for weapons and filling them with anything and everything in the amory. No one could say they were ill prepared at that moment. 

Alex left to load up their car, and John and Doyle exchanged one final handshake. 

“Miss Falk?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t be a stranger.”

—

They drove back to Speculator to retrieve their remaining items from the safe house, making sure to lock up. After hours of limbo, they were on their way back to Oyster Bay, a tactical vehicle following them closely, the trunk of the Chevelle overflowing with enough guns and ammo to arm an opposition force. 

“Are you ok?” He said finally. 

“Yeah. I’m fine. I’m just...I’m in deep now. I could have done without Doyle trying to undress me with his eyes.” 

“Sorry about that.”

“I know. I just feel like every road led here. No matter what.”

“I think you might be right about that. Sokolov’s days were numbered.” 

“How much time do you think we have before Sokolov comes after us?” 

“Enough time. Plus we have backup. Doyle’s mercenaries are the best in the world. Almost all of them are ex-Special Forces.”

“So we’re safe in Oyster Bay. For now.”

“For now.”

“Is this how it works? You just jump from allegiance to allegiance until you die or retire?” 

He laughed 

“More or less.” 

He pulled into the garage, and the group of mercenaries parked near the house and made themselves known by locking down the gate and positioning themselves near the entrance. It wouldn’t stop a sniper, but it would have to do. 

It felt much later than it was. Ivy helped John carry the contents of the trunk inside, and they brought most everything down to the basement. 

“We can put away everything tomorrow,” 

They had, in a sense. Speculator to Albany and back to get the items they left, Ivy cleverly grabbing the bourbon and stowing it in her purse. Then they drove from Speculator back to Oyster Bay. 

“Ugh I could almost sleep here,” Ivy whimpered, “I feel like we’ve been around the world.” 

“No, get in your bed. The floor is not comfortable. It’ll kill your back.”

He had a point there. She turned to go up the stairs and John followed. She grabbed her duffle bags and the new laptop, hell bent on only making one trip. 

“Here, let me carry your bags,” John held his arms out. 

“Thanks.”

They made their way up to her bedroom door, and Ivy opened it. Her laundry had been washed and put away while she was gone, the sheets freshly laundered. It looked so inviting. 

She put the laptop on the dresser and John put her bag down on the chair in the corner. 

“Do you need anything else?”

“I’d know where to find it, John. I’ve been living here for months.”

She sat down on the bed and bent to take her boots off. John sensed it was time for him to go to his own room, and he turned to leave. 

“Goodnight, I—“

“Stay. Please. I’m...a little scared.”

He mulled it over for the slightest second.

“I’ll stay.”

John sat in an armchair Ivy normally stowed her jacket it on, took his shoes off, and went to the closet, taking a spare blanket off the shelf. He took one of the pillows off the bed and put it down to the floor, and took his shoes off to lay down. Ivy rolled her eyes. 

“John, what are you doing?”

“I’ll be down here.” 

“No. Sleep. With me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I’m sure. Get comfortable.”

She took her jeans and socks off. Going over to the bureau, she pulled out a very faded Triumph Motorcycles t shirt out and pulled it over her head, where she then did a very complicated series of motions and took her bra and other shirt off. She braided her hair and climbed into the bed. 

John took his gun out of the holster and placed it on the nightstand. He hadn’t slept with another person since before his wife died. His heart thundered in his chest, and he was sure she could hear it. Nothing was going to happen, he knew that, but he was still anxious. Sleeping next to someone is such an incredibly vulnerable act, and acts of vulnerability were never really his strong suit. 

He pulled the covers and laid back. Ivy had turned to lay on her side, facing away from him. He could see the tension in her shoulders, perhaps a combination of a stranger in her bed and the stress of the day. 

He turned the light off and rolled over, facing Ivy’s back. He put a hand on her hip, softly and tentatively. 

“Is...this ok?”

“Mmhmm.” She sounded sleepy. He pulled her close, arranging her hair over her shoulder. 

He heard her breathing even out and he sighed. They weren't out yet, but this felt like progress.


	17. Chapter 17

He felt like he had barely slept when Ivy shook him awake. 

“John, I think there’s someone in here,” she whispered. He sat up and put a finger to his lips to prevent her from speaking further. He'd need all the quiet he could get to strike first. 

He carefully pushed the duvet back and put his feet on the floor, grabbing the gun. He tiptoed over to the door and carefully opened it. Sure enough, the curtain in the dining room moved. He was annoyed. Where there was one, there was always more than one, and he didn’t feel like cleaning up blood tonight. He was so tired, and he was sleeping next to a woman he was pretty sure he was falling in love with, and god dammit, hadn’t he suffered enough today?

He turned the safety off, keeping his back to the wall. He had a decent shot, but he had no idea how many there were. At least one. He careened to the window at the end of the hall, where he’d have the best view of the rest of the house. He didn’t see anyone else. This poor bastard might be on his own. 

Well, he thought, let’s get this over with. He took aim, and squeezed the trigger. One in the shoulder. 

The intruder turned to him, and returned fire. It grazed his ear. He knelt and got him in the stomach. Fuck. So messy. The intruder slumped to the floor like a crumpled towel, his blood silently but diligently changing the color of the tile, seeping into the rug in the dining room, too. Shit. John liked that rug. 

He waited a minute before going down the stairs to look at the body, the man barely breathing. He turned a light on and stepped on the man’s neck. 

“Who are you?”

“Fuck you,” he gurgled.

The man didn’t say anything. John bent at the knee and stuck two of his fingers in the man’s shoulder wound. He screamed. 

“Who are you?”

“Sokolov sent me...for the woman,” he gasped. 

“Got it.”

John took aim and put a bullet between his eyes. 

He snapped a photo and sent it to Doyle. 

_What the fuck is this?_

_Hm. Looks like a dead associate_

_Yeah, why is he in my house?_

_Don’t know. I’ll ask my men._

_Do that. And don’t you dare renege on our agreement. That would be bad for you. And for Elaine. Send the crew. He made a fucking mess._

John scratched his head lamely, trying to understand who exactly would be to blame for an armed goon in his house when he had 4 of the greatest mercenaries on earth standing guard over the house. He thought maybe he’d arrived before they had, and made a note to show Ivy his picture to try and identify him. 

That’s right. Ivy. He ran up the stairs. She was in a ball on the floor next to the bed. The gun hit the nightstand with a heavy metallic clunk and he ran to the bathroom to wash the blood off his hands before talking to her. He sat down next to her, back pressed to the walnut bed frame, and put a hand on her back. 

“Ivy” he whispered. 

She didn’t say anything. 

“He’s gone. I don’t think there’s more. Doyle’s men are canvassing the property.”

He felt her nod. 

“I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“I heard him. I heard he was here for me.”

“I know, you're safe now.”

“If you hadn’t been here—“

“Don’t. You can’t think that way. You want to get back in bed? Wait here.”

Down the stairs in three strides, he went to the medicine cabinet in his bathroom and found them. Ambien. He used them very rarely, but kept them on hand for nights when the gravity of his life clung to him. 

“Here,” he handed two pills to Ivy and a glass of water. 

“What is it?”

“Ambien. You need to sleep. I’ll stay up.”

She took the pills. 

“What will happen to the body?” 

“Someone will come for it, clean everything up.”

“This is...all so stupid. This like...never ending game of cat and mouse. It must terrorize people.”

“I know.”

“I just...it’s…” she put a pillow over her face and screamed. 

“I know.” 

“My heart feels like it’s going to explode.”

“I know. You’re going to be ok.”

“I don’t really believe you.” 

“It’s true. Try to sleep. I have to wait for the cleaning crew to get here, and then I promise I will be back.”

She nodded and rolled over, Ambien beginning to make her feel warm and loose. Her eyes were heavy and she couldn’t take it much longer. She fell asleep.

—-

When she woke, she was tangled in John’s arms. According to the clock on the nightstand, it was much later than Ivy thought it was. She inhaled deeply, taking stock of everything around her. Dresser still there. Still November outside, barren trees and grey skies threatening to rain or snow at any moment. Still had both eyes and all limbs. Still…at John’s. He came back, just like he said he would. 

She commanded herself not to squirm or move too much, not wanting to wake him after he went through last night. Plus she had no idea what time he had finally made it to bed. Let him sleep. I can wait.

But John was awake. He was awake and relishing every moment he had with Ivy in his arms. 

“Hi,” he finally whispered, “how are you?”

She rolled over to face him. 

“I’m ok. How are you?”

“Better. Glad to have slept.”

She nodded into his chest. She could feel his heart beating. She knew she should get up and see if Doyle had sent them anything over night, remembering their new roles with Doyle Security.

She sighed deeply. 

“I don’t want to get up.” 

“So don’t. Stay here.”

“But we have so much work to do. I’m not even sure I understand what I’m supposed to be working on. Plus who knows where Sokolov is. Did you happen to catch the name of the guy who, uh, dropped by last night? I really want to—“

John put a finger to her lips. Quiet, little fox. There’s plenty of time to process all of that later. He patted her on top of her head and rolled out of bed. 

“Let’s have coffee first.” 

She followed him out of bed, pulling a pair of black jeans on and sliding into a pair of sandals she seemed to wear almost every day...sometimes with socks. 

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“You always wear shoes, unless you’re on the couch or in bed.”

“Oh. Uh. My mom always did that. She said that what’s on the floor shouldn’t end up in your bed,” Ivy shrugged, “just a habit now, I guess.”

Memo, buy Ivy slippers, he thought. 

She opened the door and bounded down the stairs. Looking around, she was surprised to see that the entire house was immaculate. You’d never know that a man died here last night, save for the long gone rug from the dining room. John made coffee and she poured a bowl of cereal for herself. 

“Should...we check on Doyle’s men? Do you think they want anything?” Ivy drank almost all of her coffee in one go. 

“No, they wouldn’t take it anyway. They’re not really supposed to interact with us.”

“Understood. Ok, let’s get to work.” 

She unwrapped and set up her new laptop. After calling one of Doyle’s fellow research associates, she got into the VPN and began skimming her growing database of criminals, assassins, and crime bosses, absentmindedly shaking her head at how many of them there were. 

“So. Who was he and what was his role?”

“I believe his name was Ivan Petrov, and I believe he is just a taste of what will come. Sokolov sent him, as bait maybe.”

Ivy began to type. John looked over her shoulder Ivan, bad assassin she had written. 

“What is Doyle’s motivation?” She asked carefully. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean what does Doyle have to gain by toppling Sokolov? I know you said Sokolov isn’t liked, but why is that?”

“I think it’s because he’s never been a fair leader. Back before the Syndicate, there wasn't really a single leader. During the forming of the Syndicate, I think they wanted to strengthen executive power and consolidate who could make decisions. Sokolov rose to the top because he had so many willing associates at the time.” 

“Is that how you ended up with Sokolov?”

“Yes,” he rubbed the nub of his ring finger with his thumb, which he did every time he had to think about that dark time.

“Is it stupid to think that Doyle just believes he can do a better job?”

“No. That’s not stupid. I’m certain there are rumblings of doing away with the leadership position. It could be far more complicated than we could dream of, too.”

Ivy has taken notes by hand on the back of an envelope. Smart, John thought. Keep as much of this as possible away from the prying eyes of Doyle. 

“This is so frustrating. We have like...some understanding of people’s motivations here, but not enough to act on anything.”

She put her head down on the table in annoyance. Between the mess of feelings she had for John, ranging minute by minute from intense lust to tender affection to blind rage, to the fact that she was now beholden to the scariest man she had ever met, her head felt too full to be dealing with any of this. It was going to be a long day, at a minimum. She picked her head up.

“John. Why haven’t we slept together?” She blurted. 

“What?” He looked as though he’d snapped out of a trance. 

“You heard me.”

He licked his lips, trying mightily not to scoop her out of her chair and take her back to bed. But he knew why. He had wanted to avoid confronting it for a long time. The walls he’d built to protect himself from heartbreak after Helen died were gone. His vulnerability and openness he mistook for weakness. 

“If I sleep with you, I’ll fall...for you."

Ivy’s plump lips pursed into a thin line. A part of her she thought she had enveloped and stifled a long time ago opened, and it coursed through her like fire. Sure, since leaving Gavin, there had been flings, but she had long ago determined that she would never be in a relationship, a real, committed grown up relationship again. She’d never been able to make time to take anyone seriously, so she didn’t. But for the first time in years, she wondered. It didn't have to be forever, but she was curious enough to keep talking. 

“So we’re both scared.” 

“Seems so.”

“I don’t know how much longer I can live with this, John. I’ve...never...”

“Never.”

It wasn't really a question coming from him, more of a statement. 

“I told you we’d have to talk about it soon enough.”

“Uh huh.”

“I mean it’s not like—“

He smashed his lips into hers, coming from across the marble table top. Without breaking the kiss, he stood up and pulled her along with him, their bodies flush against one another, knocking over a few of the chairs. He wanted her to feel him, to really feel the nearly agonizing hunger he’d felt for her for months that he kept to himself, dropping hints here and there, knowing it was inappropriate, but consequences be damned. Everyone else in the game had gone rogue, why couldn't they? She felt the same, he thought. All that mattered. She felt the same. 

When he finally pulled away, her skin was flushed, as pink as the roses tattooed on her back. Breathless, she couldn't look at him right away, suddenly very aware of her breathlessness and her pink face. She covered her eyes. What was she doing? This was a guaranteed recipe for chaos. Her brow furrowed, knowing that they were on the verge of being in love with each other. 

“When was the last time you took something you wanted, Ivy?” 

She took her hands off her face and looked up at him, getting lost in the sable of his eyes. She knew his heart, she knew it. Circumstances could have been different for him, but they weren’t, and it was the same for her. They were two broken people living with their brokenness. She gave a short laugh. 

“Never. I don’t think I’ve ever taken something I’ve wanted.” 

He wrapped his arms around her and pushed her head to his chest. She could feel his heart thundering against his ribs. He stroked her hair, his other hand splayed on her back to keep her close. 

“Do you want this? Do you want it as much as I do?” 

Without even thinking, she responded. 

“I do. I want this.” 

She buried herself into his chest, worried he would get away, and carried away by John’s tenderness. Time froze and neither of them let go.

Outside, however, the universe had other ideas. A sharp knock at the door. They froze and waited. Whoever was at the door didn’t want to be kept waiting. 

“Don’t answer it,” she whispered into his chest, "This always happens." 

They knocked again. He gingerly took Ivy’s arms off of him.

“Ugh, why?” 

“I know. I’ll be back. Might be a while. They might have found something.” he shrugged slightly, and leaned in to finally kiss farewell _on the mouth_ before taking his black field jacket off the coat hook in the laundry room. He came back and gingerly set a pistol down next to her at the table. Just in case, it said to her wordlessly. 

The sky finally overflowed and it began to rain, fat drops of icy water peppering John’s jacket and hair. He pulled his hood up and waved to one of the men in tactical gear, motioning for him to come to the porch to talk to him. 

“What’s your name?” 

“Flynn, sir.” 

“Flynn. Do you have anything of interest to report? Someone was knocking on the door like it was an emergency.” 

“We found damage to your privacy fence on the east border of your property. It’s being repaired. Given the density of the wooded border, we are still trying to canvas the woods for more assailants. Due to the size of the property, this is taking longer than we thought it would.” 

“Mm. Listen. The woman in there. You have to make a choice, you choose her. Tell the others. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” 

“Good. Now don’t let it come to that. I’m going to make my own rounds.” 

The mercenary nodded. It had started raining harder, but he didn't trust Doyle’s men at all, and as much as he hoped he’d be spending this rainy November day with Ivy, twisted in his bed sheets, he had to do his own rounds. Something precious to him was inside. After the intrusion last night, he needed to make sure, with his own methodology, that they’d be left alone tonight. 

He passed the mercenaries, his clothing soaked, the wind that had picking up cutting through him. Taking the next right in the woods he knew well, he looked for signs, anything that shouldn’t be there.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW. Thanks for staying tuned.

John had been gone for a while. It was getting dark, and Ivy didn’t know if it was from the rain or the limited hours of daylight from a waning autumn. She was worried about the work Doyle had given her. He, like Sokolov, didn’t really specify what he was looking for in the minimal information Ivy had. She made an organizational chart of the bratva leadership that she thought might be new information to Doyle. She also filed the financial information she’d had leftover from her last job with Sokolov. Then she sat. She sat on the couch, lamely, thinking about John. She normally had no trouble staying focused until she finished something, but he was burned onto her, her body throbbing in the places his steady hands had been only hours ago. The doorbell rang, which seemed odd. 

She had to think that if they’d made it through the net of Doyle’s men that whoever it was probably really needed to talk to one of them, but nevertheless she stuck the pistol in the back of her pants. She peeped through the window and saw it was a messenger. She opened the door and a tall thin woman with a dour expression handed her a clipboard and a pen, and she signed next to her printed name. The woman produced a manila envelope from the battered red sling around her shoulders and pushed it into Ivy’s hands. It was addressed to her. 

Puzzled, she shut the door and sat back on the couch. She ripped open the top and pulled out a thick packet of paper rife with flagged pages. Setting on the cushion next to her, she scanned the front page. 

“RE The Marriage of Ivy Rosalyn Andersen, Petitioner, and Gavin Olaf Andersen, Respondent…” 

She audibly gasped. Flipping to the final page of the document, she held her breath. When she saw his signature scrawled at the bottom in black ink, she choked and began to cough. How? She wondered. Why now? She suddenly found herself overcome. 15 years of chasing, and it was finally done. She had absolution. She never had to think of him again. She was free. Well, free from her marriage, she thought blackly. The mess she was in otherwise was still something she’d have to reckon with, but the chapter of her life concerning her marriage was over. She fell apart. The death she’d seen, her feelings for john, the divorce. It was too much. She sobbed to herself, her makeup ruined, her nose running. She leaned back on the couch, feeling free for the first time in years. And before she knew it, she began to feel very tired. She slipped her slides off and her jeans along with them. She pulled a throw blanket from the basket under the end table and curled up, napping mostly out of need to just not be awake for a while. There was a lot to process this day.

\---

John took his muddy hiking boots off in the garage, and shook out his jacket. He was freezing. He found it odd all the lights were off when he finally rounded the path to the front of his house. Ivy could be in the basement, perhaps, but otherwise, he was on alert when he walked in. Maybe she ran back to the woods. He wouldn’t blame her. He walked into the kitchen and flipped on the light, making his way to the bedroom, where he took a hot shower and changed his clothes. Coming back to the living room, he found Ivy asleep on the couch. She had black rings of mascara around her eyes and her glasses perched on top of her head, like a ridiculous halo. Her jeans and slides made a little pile in front of the coffee table. She was cuddled up under a cashmere throw that had been a wedding gift from his first wedding. He opted not to read into that. He sighed and sat next to her, noticing the packet on the coffee table. He hadn’t expected Doyle to move as quickly as he did, but then again, Doyle was usually the type to finish doing someone a favor as quickly as he could so he was no longer beholden to you and call on you shortly after that. Well, my dear one, that’s that. 

He stood up and decided to cook dinner. There was no reason to pretend today was any different than any other day, even if it was. He went to work assembling a salad with grains and greens. He grabbed a handful of herbs from the jar he kept in the fridge and chopped them finely, along with scallions, radishes and some lemons Ivy had preserved in salt. He put two plates together and set them on the dining table, pushing Ivy’s work to the other end. He tapped her gently on the shoulder. 

“There’s food if you want it.” he said quietly. 

Ivy sat up, rubbing her eyes, her fingers coming back black from her makeup. She cleared her throat and stood, not remembering she’d slipped her pants off to be more comfortable when she lay back for her nap. 

“Fuck. Sorry,” she scrambled to slide into her jeans. 

“What are you apologizing for?” 

“I didn’t mean to sleep for so long. I should have gone up to my room.”

Ivy was having a hard time getting her heel through the narrow leg opening of her pants, and lost her footing, landing gracelessly on the tile floor in between the on the tile for the dozenth time since she’d moved in. She didn’t get up though. She lay on the floor, hands over her eyes (a signature move, John thought) and sighed. John walked over and squatted next to her.

“I don’t need to tell you you’re being a tad dramatic right now, do I?” 

“Nooooo,” she whined. 

“Ok. So do you want me to help you up or do you want to stay down there?” 

“Help.” She said flatly. 

He shifted, bending low at the knees, and scooped her into his arms. She’d never been picked up before, at least not while conscious, and she wasn’t sure if she liked it. 

“I thought you meant you’d offer me your hand.”

“Well, dramatic requires the dramatic, doesn’t it?”

“You know anything about that?” She gestured to the packet of paper on the coffee table, “and don’t lie to me.”

“I’d never lie to you. Yes. I asked Doyle to send an associate to persuade Mr. Andersen to sign them.” 

“I see. Is he...still with us?” 

“As far as I know, yes.”

“Why did you do it?”

“Because I thought it would make you happy.”

“Well. Thank you. But, you can’t...just keep...fixing my life for me, John.” 

“Why not?” 

“I don’t know. You can put me down now." 

He didn’t. He held on to her. Breathing her in, enjoying the give of her thighs under his hands. 

“But then I’d have to let you go. And I don’t want to do that. You see, much like you, there haven’t been many times in my life where I took something I wanted, and I think that what I want more than anything, my dear one, my little fox, is you.”

Ivy inhaled deeply, feeling flush and embarrassed. He took a step toward his bedroom. 

“So tell me now, are you hungry, or do you maybe want to join me in there?” He gestured toward his room with his head. 

Trying to keep her cool, she pretended like she pondered it. 

“Well that all depends. What did you cook?”

“It’s a grain salad with kale and herbs.”

Ivy pursed her lips and exhaled. 

“Fuck the salad.”

“Atta girl.” He put her over his shoulder and she squealed. He was treating her as if she was no more than a rag doll, which was impressive given that Ivy, being of milkfed Iowa stock, stood at 5'9. He marched triumphantly to his bedroom, flipped on the light, and sat her down gingerly on his bed. Ivy hadn’t been here since she'd been injured all those months ago. He’d somehow found a more luxurious, soft linen duvet and without thinking she lay back into its splendor. It felt wonderful. John hit a button on the remote stowed in a small basket next to his bed. Yards and yards of thick white fabric covered the floor to ceiling windows, giving them privacy. Good thinking she thought, remembering the mercenaries protecting them. 

He sat down next to her and slid a hand under her to her back to pull her up. 

“Hi,” he whispered, brushing some of her loose hair behind her ear, “Can I touch you?”

“Yes,” she breathed. 

He pressed his lips to her, his hands shaking when he reached to pull her closer, as she moaned quietly into his mouth. Her lips were so soft, he thought, as they welcomed him to explore. He pulled away, delicately, almost absentmindedly rubbing her shoulders. He felt like a much younger man, getting away with something as he absorbed her presence. He kissed her again, the joy in the newness of knowing her this way. He reached up and plucked her glasses off her head and stowed them on the nightstand. 

Ivy laid back and unbuttoned her pants and tried in vain to slide them off her legs. She smirked, and John moved to assist her. His hand ran up her smooth leg and traced the snake tattooed around her thigh. 

“What does this one mean? To you?”

“Birth, death. The cycle of both," 

“Mmm,” his hand moved to her shoulder in a fluid motion where her other tattoo was, rubbing it over the fabric of her t shirt “and this one?”

“They... they grow on my family’s farm,” her skin felt tense and electrified under his touch, as if beams of warm light extruded from his fingertips. He hand snaked up to the nape of her neck, his hands in her hair. He wrapped her braid around his hand, and uncoiled it. Her hair fell in a curtain around her shoulders. Her mouth fell open and she let out a low groan. He pulled with a perfect level of force for her to feel absolutely charged with lust. He tugged gently to get her to make eye contact with him. 

“Is this ok?”

"Uh huh."

He planted his lips on hers again, using her hair to pull her face closer to his. 

His affection felt stored, almost aged, like he’d been saving it, and she threw a leg over him, moving to sit in his lap. He let go of her hair. She could feel him through the thin fabric of her panties. She paused for a moment, taking time to drink him in. He looked possessive, warmed through, and needy. But that stupid voice ever present in his inner monologue slammed on the brakes. He had to give her one last chance to walk out of this room. 

“Ivy. Are you—“

“Shut up John,” she took his mouth again, her hands running through his hair gently, the dampness between her legs taking over. He swatted her ass gently. Brat, he thought. 

Ivy pulled away and stood. She slowly lifted her shirt above her head, letting it fall to the floor. She undid the front clasp of her bralette, freeing her breasts, leaving the garment hanging around her shoulders. John studied her, never wanting to forget this moment. He wanted to envision a future after this, after what came next, but only Ivy standing before him, showing herself to him flooded both his eyes and his brain...and well...his cock. 

She moved to roll her underwear down, ready to step out of them and into the bed, where she hoped she might convince John to undress, but John reached out and stopped her. 

“Leave those for me.” he pulled her toward him, inhaling her deeply. Roses. Musk. Something faintly spicy. He stood and kissed her again, hands hesitating over her breasts before allowing himself to touch them, the pads of his thumbs caressing her pert pink nipples. She sighed softly, the soft hair covering her body rising underneath his gentle touch. Every one of his motions was fluid, despite the tiniest air of awkwardness from never having done this with each other before. 

He pulled her to him, his hands running down the small of her back and over her ass, and picked her up by the back of her thighs, bringing her up to eye level and taking her mouth again. He turned and set her gently on the mattress. Stay there, he thought. It had been so long for him that while he knew what to do, he wanted to make sure he got it right. 

He unbuttoned his shirt and undid his pants, his belt hitting the floor with a metallic clang, and running his hands down her arms, scooping her up into his lap as if this was simply a ballet for the two of them, and he wanted to hit his mark. 

“I think of this often,” he whispered, his caresses continuing as he spoke to her, thinking back to the dream he had the first night she slept under his roof, “And I want to take my time. I hope that's ok,” his warm hand melting into the skin of her belly, the corner of his mouth twisting into a wry smile, as he carefully slid her from his lap to the mattress. 

“The number of times I almost…” she trailed off, distracted by his index finger running along the top of her underwear, whimpering, feeling like she might explode already. 

“Almost doesn’t count, Ivy,” he whispered, his lips barely brushing the shell of her ear. He slid his fingers into her underwear and he slowly pulled them down, like he was unwrapping a gift. He held his breath, guiding her legs through them and tossing them into a corner. 

Fully revealed to him, Ivy suddenly felt very shy, covering herself self-consciously. She looked incredible to him, sprawled out for him. The moment he’d been thinking of since he saw her for the first time. He ran a hand down the length of her, and she shivered as he took her wrists and moved her hands up above her head. His eyes told her not to move, and she wouldn't. She would do whatever he asked of her. 

He kissed in between her breasts, and down her belly, her skin warm to the touch. He parted her legs, and pressed his lips to the soft flesh of her inner thigh, feeling her muscles tremble slightly beneath his touch. She sat up suddenly, feeling selfish and SEEN. 

“John, I—“

“Lay back.”

She walked back on her elbows, stretching out. Ivy was surprised how tender and gentle he was, although she supposed she ought not be. He’d always been kind and careful with her. But she knew that he’d spent most of his life as a blunt object brandished by other people. Over their time together, she'd noticed the scars, tattoos, and she’d seen him working. She wanted him anyway. 

John pulled her legs toward him and rested her thighs on his shoulders. He pressed his thumb to her clit. A soft, choked breath fell from her lips as he tested the waters, trying to figure out how she liked to be touched first with his fingers, then with his mouth. She gasped when she felt his tongue stroking her almost lazily, slowly, as if it brought him great pleasure to make her feel like she was going split in two. So he was that kind of lover, she thought. The giving kind. The best kind. 

Once he figured out what exactly she was responding to, he absolutely devoured her. He brought her close to the edge over and over and pulled back whenever she neared the peak. Ivy had never felt anything like it, heat and sweet tension building up as he licked, kissed and sucked with erotic fastidiousness. He was slow at first, gaining footing, building momentum until she could barely stand it, his tongue almost like gentle fluttering of a butterfly. She bucked, circling her hips to get more. John pulled away for a second and looked up at her. Ivy looked wild, her eyes aflame with desire. Go back. More, they said. 

He pushed her thighs down to make it clear to her that she wasn’t going anywhere. He was tender but firm and her hands found his hair, where she raked her long thin fingers through it, guiding him carefully, until she shattered. The tension coiled within her crested and she came hard, a familiar feeling of weightlessness followed by crashing back to earth grounding her as her sides heaved. 

She lay still for a moment, nodding at John. Taking that as a cue, he crawled to her like a hungry animal, kissing her hard, positioned on top of her. He wanted her to taste what he’d done. How he had made her feel. Ivy enjoyed that someone tightly wound and dangerous could be so amorous and caring. But, she supposed she knew that all along. I know his heart. I know it, she said to herself, her own thundering in ribcage, wanting more as she slid out from under him, balancing on her shaky knees. 

John was so hard he thought he might die, but he insisted that if he stayed alive a little longer, he'd benefit greatly. The way she felt underneath his careful touch, it was as if she had been created for him. He thought about the women he’d been with over the years, trying earnestly not to compare them to the woman positioned to fuck him in mere moments, but it was difficult. 

She lined his cock up with her entrance, and he panted in anticipation at how slick she felt. 

"Wait, condom," he whispered, motioning to the nightstand. 

Ivy was quiet. This wasn't really the time she wanted to tell him, but she might as well. 

"I...I can't...um...I can't." 

"Can't what?" He looked concerned. 

"Can't...have children. Get pregnant." 

"Oh," he felt a swell of sympathy for her. He leaned up and kissed her. It's ok, little fox. 

"Sorry. Kind of ruined the moment." she laughed, but noticed he was ready nonetheless. 

She slid down on him, taking every inch of him steadily. She paused, wanting a moment to get used to the size of him and John reached up to her, pulling her down to him, pressing her forehead to his, his hand cupping her as he slipped a finger in her mouth, her brown hair blanketing him in the scent of her, the tendrils reaching out to pull him closer to her. 

"I don't care, Ivy. You're all I want."

Ivy set the pace, committing to a slow torturous tempo so as to savor every second. She felt so tight around him, with every stroke, her hesitancy to release him let John know just how much she wanted him. He guided her hips, trying not to grip her too tightly, trying not to come immediately. It was the most pleasant torture he’d ever been through, and Ivy thought that after the delicious torture she'd endured (endured...as if it was a bad thing) he deserved it. 

“The first night you were here, I dreamed about this,” he whispered, his voice brimming with tension. 

“What, this?” she bounced harder, and John let out a ragged breath. 

“That was part of it. Your hair,” he reached up and grabbed a handful and gave a bit of tug, sending waves of pleasure through Ivy’s veins “Your hair was pulling me to you. It had a mind of its own. Then you ate me.” 

Ivy laughed, balancing her hands on his chest for a moment, halting to feel him, her heart beating in her pussy. 

“I’m sorry I did that.”

“Don’t be.” 

John wrapped his arms around her and flipped her over, caressing her face. 

"You're so good, and I've wanted to do this for so long but you're torturing me with that pussy of yours."

She laughed. John reached his hand down in between her folds and circled her clit, hurtling her off the cliff of orgasm again. His thrusts got sloppier and sloppier, and he wasn't going to last much longer. 

“Look at me,”

With an irregular gasp, he felt the muscles in her thighs twitch, and knowing he’d done right by her, John let himself go. He thought he’d lost his vision for a moment, he came so hard. He collapsed on top of her. 

They laid together, joined still. John leaned down and planted a salty kiss on her forehead. 

“Are you alright?”

“Me?”

“No. The other woman here.” She could hear laughter in his voice. She knew it probably wasn’t going to be easy for John to be vulnerable with her, so she was trying to keep it light, despite feeling like she'd want to be fucked like that every day for the rest of her life. 

“I'm fine John," she laughed. More than fine, honestly, she wanted to say.

“I hope I wasn’t too rough with you?”

“No. And even if you were, I’d still want to fuck you John.”

She stood and went to the en suite to pull her hair up and clean up a bit while John turned down the sheets and shut off the lights. He sat up and pulled her back into bed upon her return. She sighed contentedly, as she wiggled into the covers, feeling John’s hands encircle her 

He rested his head on her shoulder. 

“Get some sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”


	19. Chapter 19

Doyle called John early the next morning. He stepped out to the porch to take the call. 

“John. Good morning. I have it on good authority that Sokolov will be moving both weapons and some of his administration to the Syndicate headquarters tonight. I will need you and Ivy to determine just how much firepower, and how many people are being moved. Details will be sent to Miss Falk’s email.” 

John’s brow furrowed. It wasn’t enough time to get a proper stakeout put together, which was alarming, but they’d go. John trusted Doyle. They didn’t have much of a choice at the moment, but people got careless when they didn’t have time to prepare. 

“It will be done.”

John hung up, and sighed heavily. Something was fishy about this job, either from Sokolov or from Doyle, so he thought carefully to determine how they could give Doyle what he wanted without kicking the wasp’s nest. He explained what they needed to do to Ivy. She sat quietly. 

“We agree that this is a trap, right?”

He nodded. 

“I have an idea. With any luck we won’t have to enter the facility at all. Do you happen to know if there’s a CCTV system in place already?” 

“You have the accounting records. Wouldn’t you be able to determine that?” 

“Thank you, Watson.” She quipped, smiling affectionately. 

She ran up the stairs to get her files, pouring them out on the table and thumbing through them. 

“CCTV provider is either Dispatch Security Service or Mountain Lock. Question is would Sokolov go with a local vendor or offshore?”

“Where are they located?” 

“One is in Manhattan, the other is in Saratov, Russia.”

“What’s your thinking?”

“Either a well placed threat for information, or we use 0nyx.”

“I don’t think Sokolov would use someone overseas to manage something that wasn’t directly related to bratva business, and I don’t think we’ll have time to use 0nyx. My guess is he went local for most of the services involved with the Syndicate. To appear to be neutral. At least until they can bankroll private services again. Which is the whole thing, right?”

“Mountain Lock it is.” She bent back over her computer screen. After about a half hour she had determined the owner, where he lived, any associates, and locations. There were two. Headquarters in Manhattan. Operational office in Hoboken. She scrawled the high points in her notebook and tore the page, handing it to John. 

“So. Hoboken or Manhattan first?” 

“what do you think, little fox?.”

Ivy didn’t think she’d ever tire of hearing that, even if it was a tiny bit infantilizing. 

“The man we need to talk to is Alfred Antwerp, key account manager. Hold on.”

She opened her google voice application and called the main company number. She cleared her throat. John began to panic a bit.

“Mountain Lock Security, this is Angela, how may I direct your call?” 

“Good morning, Angela,” Ivy had put on the thickest midwestern mom accent John had ever heard, and he held his breath, “it’s the darndest thing, I found a fella’s wallet here on my trip to New York and his business cards say he works here.”

Angela gave a bored “mmmhmm,” and Ivy went on. 

“So, I was thinking to myself that If I were to lose my wallet, I’d want someone to bring it to me. So where can I drop this off?”

“We are located at 33rd and 7th in Manhattan.”

“And will I be able to hand it to Mr. Billings myself? I want to make sure he gets it.” 

She held her breath and heard computer keys clacking. 

“Yes. Mr. Billings is in today.”

“Thank you!”

She hung up. 

“Looks like Manhattan.”

“What was that voice?”

“Oh. That would be what my mother sounds like. Let’s get dressed so we can leave.”

Ivy went back up to her bedroom and put on one of the few blouses she owned, a high collared, almost victorian style top, with a black jacket and dark jeans. She packed her purse with her phone and a secondary recording device. 

John ushered her to the car and pulled out of the garage. 

He reached and held her hand for a moment before he turned out to the road. 

“Whatever happens, I’m glad last night happened, and I meant what I said.”

Ivy smiled softly at him. 

“What do you say we get a drink later, relax a bit after we get what we need from Mountain Lock?”

“Are you asking me on a date John?” 

“I think I am.”

“I’d love to.”

—

John was horrifying in Antwerp’s office. He broke two of his fingers, but they left with the security key and password for the Syndicate headquarters. Ivy loaded everything into her laptop and let the screen record. 

“Much easier than staking out, huh?”

“Good idea,”

“Thank you.”

He held her hand over the center console, and enjoyed the warm little fire within him she’d stoked from dim embers to full roaring flame. 

John turned off the highway and pulled into the parking lot of a bar close to the house. Ivy read the sign: Chaucer’s. 

The bar area was a finely polished walnut, flanked with shiny brass. There were several people inside, but it was otherwise quiet. Ivy understood why John might like this place. 

She sat at a table and took her jacket off. John returning with a gin and tonic along with a bourbon for him. 

Ivy loved how his eyes softened to a warm sienna when he was relaxed and while she could see the way the years had worn on him a bit he wore them well. He smiled pensively as she talked to him about her previous work, her childhood on the farm, how she learned to ride the Bonneville, laughing with her when she told him that she once crashed into a haystack. 

John’s eyes pulled from her gaze when two men in grey suits walked in. Most of the other patrons had left, but John felt his instinct kicked in and he began to watch them, trying to maintain eye contact so as not to alarm her. He reached into his jacket and turned the safety off of his pistol.

Sensing something was wrong, Ivy braced herself and turned slowly. He put his hand on her knee under the table and squeezed for a brief second. The men walked over to their table. Ivy picked her drink up and swallowed the remainder in one go. 

“Mr. Wick, Ms. Falk.” The first man spoke with a heavily accented voice, and he put his cigarette out in Ivy’s empty glass, the ice making the remnant of fire hiss. 

John met his eyes. 

“How can I help you?” 

“Sokolov would like to send his regards. He says you should be careful that your little mouse does not get caught in a trap.” 

“I will. Thank him for me,” John said, straining against his politeness. He picked up bus bourbon and finished his drink. Ivy tried to remain calm. 

Ivy reached in her purse and fingered the gun John had given her the other day. She clicked the safety off. 

The first one who spoke drew first and sat next to her. 

“See, the thing is, Mr. Wick, whether she gets lead to the trap or we take her now, she’s coming with us.”

He reached out and pushed her hair behind her ear. Taken aback and disgusted by the gesture, Ivy slipped the gun out of her bag with one hand and gripped it. She didn’t have a great shot, but she had a good enough one. 

She spoke. “What’s your name?”

He looked confused, and tapped the barrel of the pistol to her temple. John looked at him warningly. 

“Well, it’s no matter, going with you isn’t really going to work for me.”

She inhaled sharply and squeezed, firing a shot directly into the man’s kneecap. He tried to return fire immediately, and John reached across the table and pounded his head into her empty glass. The other one ran toward the door and peeled off a shot. John stood, unholstered his gun and got him in between his shoulder blades. He popped both of them in the head, and they were dead before they hit the floor. John had been shot in the shoulder, and the pain seared through him. He dropped his gun. Ivy gasped, watching the red bloom from underneath his suit jacket. She froze. 

“There will be more. Come on.” 

John winced when he stood up. He’d been shot in the shoulder, but they could deal with that later. For now they needed to get some distance between themselves and whoever else was en route. John was thankful they'd packed the car with emergency supplies when they left. Just in case. He had too much experience to not. His arm felt useless and he resigned that he wasn't going to be much help until he was fixed up, and taking a bullet out was beyond the scope of what he could instruct Ivy to do. 

“You’re going to have to drive.” He slid the keys to her.

“Are you going to make the drive?”

“Yeah, just...help me get in.”

She opened the door and he used her as an anchor to lower himself into the seat. She turned on the engine, holding her breath as she put it into drive. 

“You know how to drive a manual, right”

“Yeah, it’s just been a minute.” 

John huffed, the pain of being shot eminating through him. He pushed down harder onto the wound, hoping to find relief. 

“Press the clutch—“

“I got it!”

She turned left to get back on the highway. John sucked in his breath a bit. She knew he was in pain, his uneven breath tugging at her heart strings. 

“I’m sorry I yelled. Where are we supposed to go?”

“Safe house is out. I need to get stitched up. Drive us to Hoboken."

—

“Turn off here,” he instructed. 

He thought the bleeding had mostly stopped. That was a good thing. He laid back and closed his eyes for a moment, angry at himself for thinking he ever deserved anyone or anything to work out. Of course this happened, he thought blackly. He didn't get happy endings. 

“Is this it?” Ivy asked, pulling up to a chiropractor’s office. Dr. Rubio the door said. 

John nodded. Ivy turned the car off and made her way to the other side of the car to help John. 

“Come on, that’s it. Put your arm around me. It’s ok. I can handle your weight. Use me. It’s ok.”

They made their way to the front, where Ivy endured yet again the dance of oh no we couldn’t possibly help you until John muttered the saying tattooed on his back. Dr. Rubio emerged from the back. She instructed Ivy to wait outside and to watch the door. She sat with her head propped up in her hands, looking at the fish tank in the waiting area. 

After about an hour, Rubio called her back. John was asleep. He looked a little pale, some color missing from his cheeks, but Dr. Rubio said he would be fine in a few days, and back to normal in a few weeks.

“How did this happen?” 

“I don’t know. We are having some, um, trouble with the Syndicate at the moment.”

“He should be ok, but he can’t fight or do any of his usual occupational activities for at least a week. Longer would be preferable.”

Fuck. What was she going to do with John out of commission for a week? That was a lifetime in this world. The only thing she knew was that they needed to move soon. 

She began to formulate a plan. 

“Dr. Rubio, can you look after him for a bit? I have to run some errands.”

She nodded and told her John would probably be asleep for at least the next few hours. Ivy took the keys out of her pocket and left. 

She stowed the car at a self-storage facility. John would want it back when this was all over, and they couldn’t take it with them. It was too conspicuous. She left all their supplies and would double back to get everything they needed. She called an Uber who took her to a car dealership. She approached a salesman. 

“Hi, I’d like to purchase the Subaru Outback you have for sale on your website. I don’t want any bullshit, I don’t need any warranties, I don’t want to haggle over the price, and I don’t need financing, I just want that car. You can send it to service to prep it to leave the lot today. Please get the forms or whatever you need to make this happen.”

The salesman looked at her as if she had asked to flay him alive. 

“What? Do you not want your commission? This will be the easiest sale you have today. Get the papers, let’s go.”

“There’s no need to rush ma’am.” 

“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me. Look I know what I want and I need it now.”

He spun on his heel and made his way to the managers office. 

—-

After a couple hours, Ivy was the proud owner of a 2016 Subaru Outback. She drove it back to the storage facility and opened the hatch, moving everything from some of John’s weapons to her go bag of clothes. She made sure to grab the keys from the Chevelle, and put it in the inside pocket of her purse, as well as the spare license plates John had collected over the years. She felt like she was wishing the Chevelle a good night when she slid the door down on the storage locker.

She then drove to a big box store, her hood up bought cell phones, a cheap laptop, and water for what would probably be a pretty long drive.

When she arrived back at Dr. Rubio’s, John was still sleeping. 

“He’s on a lot of pain medication, but I know the need of your situation, so you can leave. I packed up some clean bandages as well as gave him more pain pills. I think he’s going to be sleeping for a while, and the most important thing is to make sure he takes the antibiotics and avoids infection.”

The doctor and the receptionist helped put John in the back seat, wrapping a blanket around him. Ivy thanked Dr. Rubio, and placed a fist full of cash into her hands before getting into the car and turning the engine on. She pulled onto I-70 and pointed them west. It was time to put some road between them and Sokolov.


	20. Chapter 20

When John woke, the fight or flight response he’d honed from 28 years of experience as an assassin felt off. He was in an unfamiliar vehicle, driving through an unfamiliar land, and yet, he knew he was safe. She was there. She was driving them somewhere. It was dark, music softly floating through the cab. 

“Ivy?” He whispered hoarsely. 

“Hey. You’re awake,” she looked up at him through the rear view mirror, "how are you feeling?" 

"Like I've been shot." 

It was kismet, given that she needed to stop for gas. She could catch him up when the stopped. After driving furiously for hours, she was happy to stand and stretch while she filled the tank. She opened the door for John and helped him out so he could stand, thrusting a bottle of water and some pills into his hand. 

“Take those," she reached a hand into her tote bag and put a protein bar on the seat next to where he'd been sitting, "and eat this. The last thing we need is for you to puke up your medicine." 

John had a litany of questions. Where were they? Did she get all of their necessary equipment out of the Chevelle? But he landed on...

“Ivy where is my car?” 

“Don’t worry. It’s in storage in Hoboken. I needed to get something with space for you to lie down that no one would suspect to find you in.”

John scowled, but he trusted her. He didn't have much of a choice.

“I see. And where are we going?” 

"Ava." 

“What’s in Ava?” 

"A house in my family. I don't think there are any tenants at the moment, and Ava is in the middle of nowhere in southern Illinois, so we should be able to lay low until you're ok." 

“Mmmph.”

“We’re almost to Ohio now. Finish that water and then go to the bathroom. We shouldn't stop again for a while. It's too risky.” 

Well, he thought, if she had never been on the run before, she wasn't letting that on. He ignored the throbbing in his arm as he reached up to stroke her cheek. 

“I’m sorry our date didn’t work out.”

“You can make it up to me. Just go pee and get back in the car.”

She wrapped the blanket around him again when he returned, and he let her, wanting to feel her hands on him.

"Kiss me," he whispered, his arms useless and pinned to his side. Ivy obliged him, appreciating that he brought her out of her focus to get them away from Sokolov. 

"Now go back to sleep." 

She downed a Red Bull and kept heading west.

—

As they pulled off the highway for the final time, tensions were high. John was irritable, his pain meds wearing off and a few hours until he could take it again. Plus, they were hungry and tired.

When they pulled up to the house, John was surprised. A giant old Victorian beauty, the house didn’t fit the description in his mind's eye at all. Ivy kept going past the house, further into the land until they pulled up to a small stone cottage. A foreman’s cottage. She parked the car around the back and opened the door. 

“They’re going to figure out that the house is mine soon. Staying here will buy us time, although we can use the shower in the house. The water pressure is better.” 

Ivy pulled a key from underneath the planter containing a sad, frozen grouping of geraniums parked next to the door. She got them inside, and immediately opened the windows while she unloaded the car to air the place out. She, very firmly, instructed John to lay on the bed in the cottage and to not move while she brought in the rest of their supplies. He didn’t know if he was more tired, pained, or hungry, but he sat upright, his back resting against the headboard, and looked around the cottage. Ivy dropped the last of the bags and took her jacket off, hanging it up on the wooden peg next to the door. She braided her hair and then started the fire. The room began to heat up quickly, and once it did she opened a window to air it out for a moment. 

Ivy’s grandmother had been the daughter of a wealthy man who had built most of the homes in town and the surrounding county. He bought the property in 1909, when he was just 20 years old, and Ivy’s grandmother insisted it stay in the family, despite the fact that not one of her living family members lived anywhere near it. Ivy kept it rented and used the money to invest in the restoration and keep a property manager around to help with the day to day. The cottage, though, which had belonged to the gardener, was a different story. It wasn’t decrepit or falling down, but it was dingy. 

Leaving a small footprint on the 6 acre lot, most of the appliances, furniture, and fixtures were from the 1940s. It was clean, certainly, but it was old. The best thing it had going for it was that it was pretty hidden amongst the little wooded area on the property. If Ivy hadn't already known where it was, she didn’t think anyone would find it. 

She then took John’s shoes off and took his pants off. When he protested, Ivy insisted he needed to rest, and to let her help him, since she couldn’t be the only one to defend the two of them from what was coming. Whenever it came. 

“Dr. Rubio said I have to check your wound. Hold still, and I’m sorry.”

After scrubbing her hands, she gingerly unbuttoned his shirt, which was stiff with dried blood, it's disturbance releasing an acrid metallic scent. He looked so small, his face a little peaked, his eyes on alert. Ivy put her hand on his bandaged wound, carefully pulling the corner of the tape up, the supplies from Dr. Rubio in her lap. John inhaled deeply. The wound was smaller than she thought it would be, but it still looked angry and red against his skin. 

“Oh god. It looks ok, though. Let me clean it.”

“Thank you, Ivy.” He picked up her hand and kissed it softly. 

“You took good care of me when I was hurt.” 

She pressed disinfectant on the wound to which John hissed. Moving quickly, she replaced the bandage and put his arm back in the sling. A wave of guilt came over her, her eyes welling up. 

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry this happened.”

“Don’t.” 

“This is all my fault.”

“No.”

“I shouldn’t have meddled. I..can't help myself when I get going. I shouldn't have done any of this.” 

“If you hadn’t, I wouldn’t have met you. Things will get better. They just feel bleak now.”

Using his good arm, he pulled her close and kissed her, then fished his handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her. She dabbed her eyes and smiled at the embroidered JW on the corner. She stood and came back with a glass of water to leave on the nightstand. She sat at the head of the bed, and pulled him down next to her, adjusting so his head was in her lap. 

“Get some sleep, John.” She ran her fingers through his hair. “I’ll be here.”

He didn't mean to drift off to sleep as quickly as he did. He thought was just a moment, but the late November sun was shining through the windows when he finally woke up. Ivy was nowhere to be found, but the wood stove’s fire was crackling away, he could smell coffee. There was a reminder scrawled on a piece of lined paper to take his pills. 

The cottage was sparse, but Ivy had put as much of everything she hauled away as she could. He sat down in one of the shaker chairs tucked under the small dining table, and took the pills, throwing back the coffee. He wasn’t alone with his thoughts for long, as Ivy came through the door with a canvas tote bag full of groceries. 

“Hey, good to see you awake. Let’s change your bandages.”

He grumbled. 

“Ok, sit tight a minute. You slept for over 12 hours. You must have been tired. I got us bacon. I thought we earned it." 

She walked over to the tiny stove and fired it up, and in short order produced a hot breakfast for the two of them. Putting the plates down on the table, she grabbed her bag and pulled out what would be her third laptop in 4 months and the new cell phones. 

“Start work later. We don’t know what we’re doing or where we're going. Just wait,” said John, carefully spooning his eggs into his mouth with his non dominant hand, deep in concentration, “your plan was clever and I would say we have at least a week.”

Noticing him struggling, Ivy leaned over and cut up the eggs with her fork before going back to her emails. He sighed. 

“I’m not really sure what one does when they’re on the lam, but I thought maybe you would know,” 

“It’s a lot of waiting and planning.”

“In your case healing.”

“Right.”

He looked up at her, her eyes soft with concern. 

“How are you feeling today?” 

“Good enough. It’ll heal soon. I’m not worried.” 

“Ok, well, look. I’m still very tired. I need to nap after this, and then we are going to sit down and try to figure out what the hell has happened here, and who, if anyone, is still to be considered a friend.”

“Right.”

“I mean, you do realize we basically handed over your house?”

“Yep. No need to say it out loud.” 

“Right. And we’ve exposed your safe house to Doyle. It’s going to only be a matter of time until they figure out I own this property. So nap. Then figure out the next move.”

“Good plan, little fox.”

Ivy finished eating and did the dishes before adding another log to the wood stove. Shaking out the sheets of the small but surprisingly comfortable mattress, she smoothed them down and then laid back in, pulling up the covers to her chin for warmth and closing her eyes tightly. A few moments later her breathing evened out and she was asleep. 

John took the opportunity to sit and think long and hard about what he was going to do next. He wasn't sure if it was smart for the both of them to stick together, and he questioned if he was keeping Ivy with him out of his feelings for her or if they truly were stuck together. He was upset he kept endangering her life the way he was. She didn’t deserve to be sleeping in this wretched space, stressed about his injury, stressed about her own safety. He got up and took the keys, thinking he should leave her. She would find her way back to New York. She was scrappy and smart, and would be able to do it. He also knew she’d never speak to him again if he did it, but he could go and destroy the Syndicate and destroy Doyle the way he helped destroy the high table. He could do it alone. Their enemies would be gone and they’d both be free. But that also meant walking away from something he really really really wanted to work out. He thought of all the times he put someone else's interests above his own because it was his duty, and where had that gotten him? He rubbed his ring finger. Nowhere. It had gotten him nowhere. 

And, he needed her. He didn’t see a point to carrying on if she wasn’t there with him. He heard her stir in her sleep and he turned to study her, refreshing the image of her in his mind's eye. Elegant, slightly upturned nose, pink flush over her soft skin, delicate but strong brow. He couldn’t leave her. It was selfish and dangerous for both of them, but he couldn’t do it. 

Sighing, he put the keys back and sat down on the bed next to her. I’m sorry, he said to her silently. I need you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all are so so so kind. Thank you for the love. 
> 
> Ivy and John will be moving around a lot the next few chapters so things will fall into place to get there where I want them to go. 
> 
> I hope you're enjoying!


	21. Chapter 21

Ivy awoke to John sitting next to her, stroking her hair in small circles. This was bliss, she thought, before remembering she was laying in a dingy cottage on the run from the majority of organized crime groups back home. 

“Hey,” she whispered. 

“I know what we need to do.”

She rubbed her eyes and sat up so she could be eye level with him. 

“What do we need to do?”

“I have one other favor I can call in. I think I should call it in.”

“Who...would we be talking to?” 

“He is a childhood friend.” 

“Uh-huh.”

“I believe he would help us.”

“Is it just one guy? Because, and I don’t mean to be a jerk, I think we’re going to need more than one person. Why would he help you?”

Because I have no other options. Not while keeping you safe and staying alive to be here for you, he thought. 

“He’s never worked for the Syndicate, the high table or any other organized criminal enterprise. He will help because he is my friend.” 

“Ok, so what is he helping us with?” 

She leaned into him and he put his good arm around her possessively. 

“We have to obliterate everything.”

Ivy snorted. 

“I mean, I guess you have a lot more experience with this kind of thing, but how is that possible?”

“We’re going to blow it up.” 

“What? What are we blowing up?” 

“The Syndicate headquarters, as well as all the Syndicate outposts.” 

“And this friend, they will help you do that?” 

“I believe he will. There’s a lot of bad blood between Igor and Sokolov.” 

“And if he doesn’t?” 

He paused.

“We’ll get to that when we get to it.”

Ivy sighed heavily. It would be nice to have at least a plan b, but she didn’t think that would be happening. 

“So what do we have to do?”

“Chicago. To talk to Igor.” 

“When should we leave?”

“What do you think about Thursday?”

“That might work. How’s your arm?” 

“Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m not. That’s going to contribute to whether or not I agree with your line of thinking.”

“My arm is fine. I’m fine.”

“Ok. Well then I guess we’re going to Chicago.”

John Ivy about Igor and his work. Absolute freelancers were difficult to come by in this business, but Igor truly was able to stay out of politics and only take contracts. 

“How did you meet?” 

John was quiet. He might as well be honest.

“My name. My real name, is Jardani Jovonovich. I came here as an orphan from Belarus. I lived and trained with other orphans. By the time I was old enough, I joined the military, and I was good enough to be in the special forces. “

Ivy pushed herself closer to him. He accepted her quietly. He went on. 

“After I left, I was hired to work as a mercenary for the bratva, then I became more of a specialist. Igor was with me the whole way, nearly. Until he did what I should have done: he didn’t swear fealty to anyone. I didn’t do that and while it meant I met Helen, I became wealthy, I met you, it also meant that I had a shared fate with a lot of people I didn’t trust, but didn’t have a choice.”

“Does he remember you? Igor?”

“Yes. We get together once a year to get drunk and reminisce.”

“Why did you change your name? I like Jardani.”

“The High Table thought it was too ethnic. I didn’t agree but I also didn’t protest. That part of me doesn’t mean much anymore. ” 

“Oh John. Did you ever meet your mother?”

“I never did. I heard she died having me. I don’t know who my father is either. She didn’t tell anyone or didn’t know.” 

He also didn’t know if that was true either, given the source of the information was the Director, who was barely trustworthy and incredibly abusive. 

“Do you know her name?” 

“I heard it was Polina, but I don’t know.”

As much as Ivy clashed with her mother, she was she was in her life. She knew, though, that John wouldn’t want her sympathy. She was quiet for a moment, wanting to ask for more information. To try to find her, but that wasn’t what he was asking for. She took his hand.

“John. I am sorry this happened. Any of this. You’ve been treated so poorly. I’m...probably saying this more for me than you—“

“Shhhhh. It’s ok.”

She laughed uncomfortably and wiped her eyes. Her heart broke thinking of young John, alone in the world. 

“Look at me. Making this about me. I’m sorry. I’m just..”

“You have a good heart, Ivy. A lot has happened in the past few days.”

“It has. Doyle. Sokolov. My divorce being finalized, being terrorized in a bar, you being shot, coming to Ava….”

“You left out the most interesting part.”

“Oh. I did.”

She grinned.

“You don’t regret it, do you?” 

“I only regret that you have a hole in your shoulder right now. I do feel a bit like we’re doomed though, but I don’t regret anything I have done with you since we met. Except maybe for trying to get you to sleep me with after Irina’s wedding.”

He smiled, remembering that night fondly.

“Why do you feel like we’re doomed?”

“Well, in addition to wondering and worrying about normal relationship stuff, I also worry someone will just open the door and murder us. I know you will never allow that to happen so long as you’re around, but you're still human...”

She trailed off. 

“I realize our relationship isn’t normal,” he went on, “but when I think of the future, I just see you. And I don't think any of the work we're doing is for nothing. Things will get better. At a minimum, we can go home soon.”

Ivy chewed her lip for a second. Where was home, though, she thought. They hadn't had much of an opportunity to discuss that, and it was like they did things backwards. Cohabitation before dating. 

“I’m in.” 

—-

Ivy couldn’t or wouldn’t stop moving. She was alight with energy, trying to get them ready to go for their trip in just a few days. She ran off to finish packing and organizing all of their stuff. John waited, looking at the dinner she had placed in front of him, feeling guilty that he wasn’t helping, but not really sure how to jump into her flurry of endless activity. 

“Ivy, come eat. Please?” He called out to her, if only to try and get her to sit still for a few moments. She’d been moving continuously since they’d picked their next move and she was stressing him out. He tried again.

“Ivy,” his eyes followed her, demanding her attention. 

“Ok, this is the last bag, just wait a moment,” she fumbled with the front door and pushed it open, dragging the final ballistic duffle to the Subaru.

In the time since her nap, she’d cleaned all the guns, cooked, disposed of their bloody clothes, gone to get gas, changed John’s bandages, and did two loads of laundry, sneaking into the big house to get the last of it just moments ago. 

She finally sat, a band of sweat glistening on her forehead, and sliced into her meal ravenously, stopping only to gulp water in between bites. 

“We’re not leaving until Thursday. You can slow down. Talk to me,” he gave her a wry smile and scooped some food into his mouth, chewing slowly. 

“I have to stay busy or I start to freak out” 

He pushed his plate across the table next to hers, dragging his chair behind him so he could sit next to her. Removing his sling, trying to ignore the tremor of pain he felt as he did, he reached down and held her hand. 

“We’re going to get through this. I’ve done this before.”

“I know. I trust you.”

“I will never take that for granted.”


	22. Chapter 22

Igor lived in a brick bungalow on a quiet residential street near a park. There was a wrought iron fence wrapped around the property, which didn’t seem to fit with the rest of the house, but Ivy knew that it was probably there because of Igor’s profession. He chose wrought iron, John had chosen wood cover and distance, with mixed results. John hit the small silver button on the call box and waited, the engine humming quietly while they waited in the early December chill. 

A woman answered. 

“John Wick. How lovely to see you again.”

Ivy detected a slight twinge of resentment in her tone. 

“Moira. Is he home?” 

“No, but I can entertain you until he is.” 

The call box buzzed and the gate rolled open. John slowly drove up the small driveway and parked in front. Ivy checked her appearance in the rear view mirror and brushed her hair out of her eyes. It was going to be a long day, she thought as she adjusted the collar of her shirt and smoothed the top of her pants impulsively. She grabbed her purse and opened the car door. John extended his hand and helped her out. 

“Ready?” he asked, killing the engine. 

“I guess so.”

The woman who must have been Moira was tall. Taller than Ivy, and had the thick red hair cut into a blunt bob, elvish features, and very strong eyebrows. Moira gestured for them to come inside and deposited them on a damask sofa in the living room. She brought them coffee, Moira spoke first.

“What can we do for you, John Wick and Ivy Falk?” 

“I need to talk to Igor.”

“Makes sense. He mentioned you called. Something about cashing in a favor,” she pursed her lips and gave John a meaningful look. 

“What have you gotten yourself into?” 

“It’s...complicated and I’d rather not tell it more than once.”

John picked up his coffee and drank deeply, looking out the picture window at an older fellow raking leaves across the street. He wished dead leaves mucking up his yard were his only worry. 

Igor arrived home moments later, and Ivy was surprised to see a very ordinary looking man. Average height, average build, his hair curly and grey. John was tall, and Doyle was an absolute monster compared to the two men in collected in the living room. 

John stood, and Ivy followed. They greeted each other as old friends, speaking to each other in what sounded like Russian to Ivy. Moira smiled cautiously, glancing at Ivy. 

“Sit. This could go on for a while.”

Ivy sat, her hands balled into anxious fists. 

“He’s going to help you. I don’t think he could love anyone more than he loves John.”

Ivy nodded, while Moira grabbed the coffee pot and topped off her cup. 

“Here.” 

“Thanks. I’m sorry, but what do you mean by that?” 

“They...have a history.” 

Ivy wondered what that meant, as Moira tried to make light conversation with her, which was totally farcical, given the severity of the situation and how much time Ivy had spent away from a safe place at this point. 

John and Igor were speaking very softly now, having retreated to the dining room to sit at the table. John has Ivy’s files in front of him, explaining the web she's figured out, Igor nodding solemnly on occasion. 

At this point, Moira seemed bored with Ivy and got up to work on something in the kitchen. She put her head on her hand and tried to stay awake, the soft droning sound of people speaking a language she didn’t know being very relaxing. She was so tired. She shut her mind off and leaned back into her chair. 

—-

Ivy didn’t know how much time had passed since she last looked at her phone, but when she felt a hand on her shoulder, she noticed it was now dark outside. She yawned and looked up to see Moira, holding a plate. 

“I think they’re almost done. I thought you might be hungry,” she reached down and handed over a sandwich. Ivy nodded gratefully and bit into it.

“Ivy?” John called. 

“Oh. Yes?” 

“Can you come here?” 

“Yes?”

John motioned for her to sit, and she put her plate down, pushing it to John and motioning for him to eat the rest of it. 

She took stock of all the research she’d done in the past 4 months laid out before them.

“We have a plan. We need time, so we will be here a few days for Igor to make a few connections, but we have a plan,” John said between bites. 

“Great! What is it?” 

“We need to use 0nyx. Do you still have a good rapport with him?” 

“Yes. I do. Tell me more.”

“We are going to destroy all Syndicate records, as well as the buildings themselves. We will also be taking all assets and selling them to the highest bidder with the sole purpose of bargaining to get you out for good.”

“What about you?” 

“I’d like to think that me being out is implied with the explosion.”

“Ok. So now what?” 

“Well,” Igor spoke to her for the first time, “we have to work out some details, buy some firepower and people, and that could take time. You and John should stay nearby until it’s worked out.”

Ivy nodded. 

“Why can’t we just take or destroy the files? Bombing seems excessive.” 

Igor and John spoke at the same time, explaining to her that in order for it to stick, it had to be severe. It had to sting. To mean something to them, otherwise it would just keep happening. She finally agreed and inquired to what exactly she would need to be working on.

“So. We need you to reach out to 0nyx. Can you do that?” 

“Yes. I will. I will send a message this evening. Do you have bitcoin to pay him? My balance is low.” 

The silence crept back in, hanging solemnly over them. Igor stretched his arms above his head and yawned, Ivy and John exchanging looks that it was probably time to leave. 

“8 am sharp? Tomorrow?” 

John nodded. “We’ll be here.” 

—-

Igor walked them to the car after giving them burner phones, a set of keys, writing down directions to one of his other properties, discouraging them from using their phones to guide them. He and John exchanged the one-arm bro hug. Moira gallivanted up to the car with a tote full of coffee and breakfast items, and Ivy spied a big bottle of bourbon. Funny, it wasn’t until she moved in with John that she drank so much. 

“Until tomorrow, brother. Ivy, it was nice to meet you.”

John guided her toward the lake as she drove, where they would be staying in a condo on the lakefront. Ivy pulled into the parking garage and they brought a limited sampling of their items in through the service elevator, as Igor had instructed. 

The condo looked jarringly like John’s home in Oyster Bay. The same neutral furniture, gorgeous views and floor to ceiling windows. John went wordlessly to the kitchen to put away the food Moira had given them, while Ivy walked straight to the bathroom and drew a bath, helping herself to the fancy bath oil and peeling her clothes off. She slid into the water, feeling instant relief from the stresses of her day, relishing the volume of water given to her from the enormous bathtub. She wanted to talk to John, though, so she called to him. 

“John? Did you...maybe want to come talk to me?” her voice echoed in the bathroom. 

The door cracked. 

“I thought you’d want some privacy.”

“No. Come on. You’ve seen me naked, and if I remember correctly, you liked it.”

He opened the door all the way, and slid his socks and shoes off, rolling up the bottom of his pants to dip his feet in the warm water, sitting on the ledge, his back propped against the white subway tiling that circled the entire bathroom. He plunged a hand in the water, scent of the bath oil bursting into the air and inhaled deliciously. 

“How are you doing?” 

“I didn’t realize I was going to be in the middle of all this. I should have just…” 

“Hey. No. It’s both of us. This is a shared fate. We have Igor now, and his connections.”

The bathroom was hazy with steam from the warm water, and John’s hair began to curl up a bit in the humidity. Ivy reached up and pushed it behind his ear. He grinned at her, trying not to think about how inviting and soft she looked immersed in the tub. 

“You know John,” she sunk back into the water, “I think about that night, the night you read to me often.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah. You’re so gentle and kind to me. I probably don’t deserve that.” 

He rolled his eyes at her, wanting to shout that she deserved all of that and more to make up for lost time. 

“Here, turn around. Let me wash your hair.”

John set about wetting the rest of her hair and then adding shampoo, producing a fragrant lather. He rinsed thoroughly and combed conditioner through Ivy’s thick mane of hair with his fingers. He relished every second, and so did she. She stood, and John handed her a towel. 

“It’s cold. Dry off quick.”

Ivy obeyed, trying her best to beat the chill. John left to changed out of his damp clothing, and returned with her favorite pajamas, leaving them on the counter and letting her dress in private. 

He poured both of them a healthy portion of bourbon and sat on the grey tweed sofa waiting for her. She emerged momentarily, damp hair and pink skin, smelling like a warm summer day as she sat next to him and fired up her laptop. She intended to message 0nyx with her new request. She typed quickly, explaining that he’d need to find a way in to the Syndicate’s electronic filing system, which Ivy thought would be either incredibly easy, or very very difficult. She pushed send and John quietly pushed down the screen. 

“Come on,” John pulled her feet into his lap and began to work out the knots. 

“Ugh, you’re spoiling me John.” she laughed, 

“You have no idea how much more I want to.” 

She sighed contentedly, music playing softly in the background, the lights dimmed and fresh and clean out of the bathtub, Ivy began to feel a little bit less terrible about everything.


	23. Chapter 23

It happened suddenly. She felt a rough hand over her mouth that squeezed hard in warning. It wasn’t John. He would never be so rough. Whoever it was put her arms behind her back and zip tied her wrists together. She tried to scream, but as quickly as her captor took their hand away it was replaced with tape. She began to kick hard, which resulted in her legs being bound and a black fabric bag being put over her head. 

Two men shouting at each other in Russian picked her up and carried her out of the condo, their grip too strong for Ivy to wiggle away. She heard a car door open and they pushed her into the back seat. 

Why wasn’t John coming, she thought. He should be here. He hears everything. As soon as the engine started, she knew it was over. 

They didn’t drive fast, which was alarming to Ivy. They weren’t in a hurry. She tried to count minutes, gauge how fast they were going, to try and have any clue where she was going. She wasn’t going to scream for them, though. That wouldn’t happen again. She felt a sharp prick in her hip, and before she knew what happened, she passed out.

—-

John woke up with start, out of breath and vision blurry. He felt as if in a daze, his skin tight around the top of his forehead.They must have hit him over the head. Of course. It wasn’t him they wanted. Fuck. 

But how did they even get in without him hearing? Something was off, but he thought he might have to figure that out later. Right now, Ivy was missing, and he had no idea where she’d gone. 

He stumbled to the bedroom, where there was definitely evidence of a struggle. The bed clothes were pushed to one side. Lamp upturned. She had gone to bed before him last night. How could he be so stupid? She couldn’t be let out of his sight so long as Sokolov was alive. One of Ivy’s silver earrings sat heavily in the middle of the messy bed. He looked for anything else out of place. Anything else he could use to figure out where they’d taken her.

He didn’t haven’t to wait long. His phone buzzed and he held it up to his ear. 

“John Wick! Lovely to finally hear from you. I trust you’re enjoying your little tour of the Midwest?”

It was Sokolov. He stayed silent. 

“Well, you see, the mess the two of you have made so far is proving very hard to scrub away. So what I want you to do is call off your dogs, turn over all the info you’ve gathered, and the girl gets to live. You won’t get her back, but you’ll have my word she’s alive. Right before I kill you. Maybe she’ll get to watch?”

John knew what conditions Ivy would be living under if he took this deal. But he also knew that she would surely be murdered while he was on this call if he didn’t take the deal. There was a third route he had to attempt: Challenge him. Sokolov could never turn down a chance to win a game. 

“Sokolov, that can’t be all you want.”

“You want to bet, John Wick?” 

“Yes. I do want to bet. I bet I can get her back AND still destroy you. If I don’t, you can kill me. I will hand you the gun.”

Sokolov was quiet. 

“It’s a deal, you fool.”

He hung up. John forced himself to stop thinking about what they were probably doing to Ivy and tried to think about where he could start, and who the hell ratted them out. He plucked the silver earring from the bed and tucked it into his pocket. He had to give it back to her. 

He called Igor, and asked him to swear that it wasn’t him. He did, and John drove to him immediately, and began to formulate a plan. 

—-

As far as being held captive, Ivy thought this could have been a lot worse. Sure. Her room had a heavy steel door and bars on the windows, and they refused to let her change out of her sleep shorts and tank top into something warmer, but they did bring her food and water regularly, and there was a toilet and a wash basin, so she was at least marginally clean. Since she had a window, she knew where she was. Sokolov’s compound in upstate New York, ugly turrets and bad stonework abound. She looked straight down out of the window, concluding that she wasn’t going to make the jump without breaking something, even if she could get the bars off the window. 

She also knew that her situation would get worse if John didn’t come. She was pretty sure he would, but she didn’t know whether or not he was even alive. She struggled to understand how they could have gotten past him. Unless...she thought. Someone told Sokolov. She didn’t know who, but given the list of people who knew where they were, it either had to be Igor or Moira. She didn’t think it could be Igor. 

Igor was hopelessly, indubitably in love with John, and seemed to understand that his would always be unrequited love. Jealousy is a cruel mistress, but she didn’t think it was Igor who was motivated to call Sokolov. 

She was pretty sure it was Moira. Moira had access to to their food. Moira who was probably in a loveless marriage with a man who wasn’t remotely attracted to her. Ivy thought she might be reading ahead a bit, as she got back into bed and pulled the cheap scratchy sheets around her. But she knew she was right. Moira. Sedative in the bourbon. One phone call, and all of her problems go away. 

Sokolov had come to talk to her a few times, asking questions about Doyle, questions about the Giamettas, questions about John, and she tried to answer them. He was never satisfied though, and told her that she was running out of time to be valuable to him. But, he never laid a hand on her. That didn’t make him kind, though. She was still very much captive. 

The door opened and Ivy snapped back to reality as Sokolov entered, handing her a laptop. 

“I thought perhaps this would jog your memory.” 

“Sokolov. I truly don’t know what you want from me. You’re going to have to give me a hint if you want me to help you.”

“You’ll know it when you see it. It’s really a shame that our previous arrangement wasn’t enough for you. I thought it was going well.”

He stepped toward her and brushed his hand over her cheek, and she could feel the warm metal of his sigil ring brushing against her as he did. Ivy felt naked and vulnerable in her camisole and shorts, especially against the December chill. She shuddered, and Sokolov spun on his heel and left the room. 

Ivy put the laptop down on the uncomfortable twin mattress and tried to determine what exactly she might have come across that was so valuable to Sokolov. Or he was simply fucking with her. That seemed more likely. If there was one thing about John she was beginning to understand, it was that all of these men, while more powerful than he, were certainly a little bit afraid of him. Sokolov had to know about her and John, though she didn’t know how he could. She didn’t want to get cocky, but she didn’t think Sokolov would actually hurt her, so long as she was connected to John. 

Regardless she glanced at the security camera and realized that if she looked like she was working, then at least Sokolov would be satisfied for a bit and leave her alone. 

What she actually began to do was partition off the laptop, install the VPN Igor had told her to use, and opened her Proton mail. She needed to send two emails. 

_To: fortunus@protonmail.net_

_From: ivyrf86@protonmail.net_

_Subject: It’s me. I’m fine_

_J,_

_I’m ok. I’m at the place we went the first time we met, I think. I did that thing you asked me to._

_I_

And then she wrote to 0nyx, telling him to get in touch with John. Sokolov and the Syndicate were not very tech savvy, but she still didn’t think she should chance giving up too much information, even though he did leave ivy alone with an internet connection and an unsecured device. She also wasn't sure that he'd even see it. 

She shut the laptop and decided to nap. There wasn’t much better to do until things fell into place, and just as she settled into her bed, the door opened again. Although instead of Sokolov’s lackey, or the man himself, it was someone else. 

“Vera.” Ivy said simply. 

“Miss Falk,” she said with a curt nod. Vera wore a black skirt suit with a light pink blouse, a large black leather satchel hooked on her forearm. Again she seemed unshakable bale, and ivy felt ridiculous in her dirty pajamas as she scrambled to stand. 

“What...can I do for you?” 

“I think this is more about what I can do for you.”

“Why would you help me?” 

“Well, two reasons, Miss Falk. One, you will owe me a favor, and I will use that favor to understand what happened to David. I will need you to uncover that for me. Two, Jardani and I are old friends, and I have noticed the way he looks at you. Our old friends deserve to be happy, do they not?” 

Unsure whether or not to trust her, Vera must have sensed her wariness. She unzipped her purse and reached in, grabbing a cashmere wrap she had brought with her.   
“You must be quite cold. Please accept this to keep you warm until you can be moved. I will reach out to Jardani as soon as I am no longer under my husband’s careful watch. I expect soon.” 

“Ok, but what about the security camera? They’re going to know you were here.” 

“I’m not stupid, Ivy. I’ve got it covered.” 

Ivy nodded. Ok. She could wait. She could make it. 

“Thank you, Vera,” Ivy pulled the wrap around her shoulders, “Now. I can get the work on finding David if you can give me anything on his last known whereabouts and anything else on him? Bank account info would probably be the best.” 

“It can wait.” 

She turned to leave. 

“Good luck, Ivy.”


	24. Chapter 24

Ivy laid in her bed, thinking of her soft bedding at her old apartment. The threadbare quilt, percale sheets, and perfectly worn pillows. It had been so long since she’d slept well, and it didn’t seem like that was going to change now. She looked up at the full moon, glowing above her like a beacon. 

She heard a quiet tapping at the window, and wrapping the cashmere Vera had given her around her, she cautiously approached to see what it was. 

Nearly fainting when she saw it was John, she suppressed a scream and he held up his phone, a message typed in the notes application. 

I’m getting you out of here.

She nodded and he adjusted the harness around his waist. 

He wrote another. 

You have to be quiet, and you have to stand back. 

She nodded again giving him a thumbs up. And as John began to pull at the bars, it became abundantly clear they were just wood, painted black. Ivy could have taken care of them easily had she known. 

John threw the the wood to the ground, brushed his hands on his jacket and typed one final message.

We will have less than 5 minutes when I break the glass. Get ready. It’s cold. 

She wrapped the scarf around her shoulders as tightly as she could, and gave him another thumbs up. He swung a wrench he pulled from the harness’ belt and the glass shattered, immediately triggering the alarm. He knocked the excess glass from the frame and pulled her through the open window. 

“Come on, wrap your legs around me. There. Like that. Hold on to me.” 

The drop wasn’t far, and they dangled precariously above the hedge that surrounded the entire complex. Slowly, he lowered them to the ground. 

“I’m so happy to see you.”

“Me too. When we hit the ground, run like hell toward the trees. Avoid the glass. Don’t look back, don’t look down, and when you get to the lake, you’ll see a boat. That’s where Igor is, get on the boat and wait for me. I have to take care of something.” 

He kissed her before landing with a soft thud, the alarm blaring still. Pushing her out of his lap away from the glass, Ivy inhaled sharply as her bare feet hit the frozen ground. 

They were on a remote corner of the property, and it took her a moment to orientate to where the trees were. She’d never run so fast before. John didn’t tell her how far she’d have to go before she got to the boat. 

The wooded area was thick and very dark and after she’d been running for a while, she began to wonder if she’d taken a wrong turn. 

Toward the lake, look for the boat. Boat. Boat, she repeated to herself over and over again, trying to ignore the shock of pain in her frozen feet. There it was. She was almost there. She careened to the right and headed toward a fishing boat floating next to the decrepit wooden dock, the dark water glittering under the moon. 

Thinking she had hit something to trip her up, she felt her legs fold from under her. She landed rudely on the ground, the wind knocked out of her. But it wasn’t a log.

Sokolov’s henchman grabbed her hair and pulled her up. 

“Oh little mouse, did you really think it would be that easy?”

“Yeah, I kinda did,” she gasped for air and coughed, practically able to hear him trying to determine what he should do with her. 

She felt something whiz past her head and it hit him between the eyes. The weight of the fallen goon brought Ivy down too, the man’s warm blood coating her now filthy pajamas, and her chest and torso. John pulled the man’s body off of her and scooped her up like he did that night all those weeks ago. 

“I almost made it.”

“I know. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

—-

Igor beagan to drive the boat north, toward Canada and to the east to get to the other side of Lake Champlain. It was a comfortable vessel. A small berth and a living space below deck. John boiled some water for tea and for Ivy to wash with, as she sat shivering in a blanket. John had brought her some clothes, but what she really needed was to wash another man’s blood off of her. 

“Stand.” 

John had placed a basin on the dining table, dipped a clean wash rag into the steamy water, and wrung it out. Realizing this would be easier if she were naked, John pulled her ruined camisole and shorts off, discarding them into a trash bag. He picked up the rag again and began to dab at the blood rapidly drying on Ivy’s chest and torso. He used a clean rag and after every pass, and also closely examined her for any damage. Determining she was at least ok on the outside, he dried her off and gave her the clothes he’d packed,her favorite jeans and a huge fisherman’s sweater that had belonged to Ivy’s father. Clean, warm socks felt absolutely indulgent after running the distance she had in her bare feet on frozen ground. Lacing her favorite boots, she wrapped the blanket around her and sat down again.

He placed a mug of hot tea in her hands, then pulled up a chair right in front of her. 

“Will you talk about it?”

“Yeah. There’s not much to talk about. they drugged me, brought me here, tried to get information out of me, but I honestly couldn’t figure out what they wanted.”

She sipped her tea. 

“Did they...did they touch you?”

“You mean—“

“Yeah.”

He braced himself for her answer. 

“Not that I know of. I mean the worst part about it was having to wear the same clothes for however long I was there. It was hard to keep track of time.”

“8 days. I wish I could have gotten to you sooner. I just didn’t know where you were. My God, Ivy I’m sorry.”

“What could you have done? We knew they had to catch up with us at some point. I’m ok.”

“They should have never gotten in, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out how they did.”

Ivy had an idea, but it wasn’t the appropriate time to share it. Given they still needed Igor’s help, she thought better of selling out Moira until after they figured out how to wash away the rest of the Syndicate. 

“John. It’s ok. I’m ok.”

“I’m not supposed to make mistakes like that. It’s sloppy. That’s not who I am.”

“We’ve both been burning the candle at both ends for weeks. You were exhausted. Probably still are.” 

“Something about it isn’t right though.”

Ivy put the mug down and stood, planting herself in John’s lap and wrapping her arms around his neck, the scratchy wool from her sweater making him feel snug and safe. 

“What’s the plan?”

“We’re almost to Vermont. We’re stashing the boat there, and then we will head out to the woods. We might be camping for a while. I’m sorry I can't give you a warm bed yet.”

“What was the thing you had to do before you could get on the boat?” 

“I killed Sokolov.”


	25. Chapter 25

Ivy inhaled sharply. 

“It had to be done. It will throw enough of a wrench in Syndicate operations that doing so bought us some time." 

She nodded, looking deep into his eyes. He looked scared. Deep down, he looked scared, a noticeable glaze over his normally bright, warm eyes. 

“That...will make Vera happy, I guess." 

She wasn't sure what else to say. 

Igor shouted down to them that they were getting close to port. John and Ivy cleaned up the cabin and made their way topside. John hopped onto the pier and tied off the boat. They grabbed their gear and walked to a black Land Rover parked in the marina lot. Igor drove carefully through the snow covered mountain roads until, it felt, they were very far from anyone who could hurt them. They turned sharply off to a dirt road and through a thickly wooded area until the road ended. Igor killed the engine and helped Ivy and John unload their bags. No one spoke, and Igor got back into the car and drove away. Looking perplexed, Ivy's face asked the question John had anticipated. 

“He’ll come back in a few days. He’s taking the boat to Canada. We shouldn’t all be together until a few more things are worked out. He has a meeting with 0nyx tomorrow, too, to discuss the schematics of the hack. Whatever...that means.”

“Why aren’t you going?” 

“Because I won’t let you out of my site again, and there will be significant heat on my back for the next few days.” 

"Oh," she said, grabbing two of the bags and slung them around her, the wind cutting through her sweater, "and...where exactly are we?" 

"Green Mountain National Forest," John muttered as he dug around in one of the other duffles, pulling out a parka and handing it to her, "Here, put this on." 

Ivy dropped the duffles to the hard snowy ground and zipped up the coat. John draped the bags back over her shoulders and gestured towards a path of packed down snow that Ivy presumed would lead them to whatever dwelling they'd be in until...who knew when. She followed him carefully, the night deathly quiet except the sound of their boots hitting the trail, the two of them weaving through trees until they finally reached a clearing.

"This is it," John said, trying to knock the snow off his boots on a fallen tree near where he'd stopped. Ivy was darkly amused that almost the whole of the time they’d been together was in other people’s spaces. Maybe someday they’d get to go back home, she thought, putting down the too-familiar duffles for what felt like the hundredth time the past two months. 

Their campsite had an old Airstream seemingly dropped among a clearing of trees. Ivy noticed a rather large propane tank around the back, so this seemed like someone's permanent setup, but honestly wasn't sure if she wanted to know whose. The camper was in good condition, and very tidy, with a partition between the main living space and the sleeping quarters, an irregular-sized mattress lofted off the ground. Ivy and John made quick work of putting things away in the dark. The problem with wilderness is that if someone is watching you, it's very obvious where you are if you light a fire or use light. The anonymity of darkness was crucial right now, and would be for a while. 

After stowing away their other provisions, John rolled out clean bedding and motioned for Ivy to sit. He took her boots off and softly pushed her back toward the mountain of pillows. Ivy tried not to be annoyed that he was treating her as if she were made of glass, but she was. She shivered, hoping the bed would warm up fast, shimmying into the heavy quilt and pulling it up to her chin. John followed suit, leaving a loaded pistol next to his side of the bed, a tradition he’d hoped he’d be able to break soon. He pulled Ivy close to him and sighed. 

“If you could be anywhere in the world right now, doing anything, what would you choose?” he asked. He certainly wished they were somewhere else. 

“Anywhere in the world. I would give just about anything to go somewhere to buy a coffee and sit down with a book. I feel like I haven't done that in ages,” she sighed, "What about you?" 

“I would pick being on a remote beach...with you. Mexico maybe. The Seychelles are beautiful too. Somewhere we could be alone.” 

“We’re alone right now.” 

“Alone but warm.” 

She laughed, and turned to face him. “Are you cold?” 

“Maybe,” and he pressed his freezing hands to her face, causing her to squeal. 

“Jesus! Christ!” 

He then felt Ivy squirming, and heard her heavy sweater hit the floor with an audible plop. She shimmied out of her leggings and socks, and pulled him close. She greedily took his mouth, wordlessly pulling his shirt over his head, reveling in the warm flesh of his chest. She knew John was being hesitant because of the events the previous few days and she wanted, at least partially, to show him it was going to be ok. 

“John,” she whispered, when she pulled away from him. He nodded and wiggled out of his pants, reaching a hand up her spine to pull her back to him. They had lost time to make up for and Ivy felt starved for him. He was being careful with her though, and honestly, that was the last thing she wanted. 

“John, please,” she pleaded with him, catching his gaze, “I’m not going to break.” 

Good, he thought. He’d been aching for her.


	26. Chapter 26

They woke early the next morning, the sun reflecting brightly off the snow outside. It would be impossible to sleep more. John has mentioned something about hunting to her the night before, which Ivy thought was ridiculous, but she was willing to humor him. She'd lived off instant oatmeal and apple sauce before, and was willing to do it again until they had better accommodations, but John insisted. He produced a rifle from one of the bags they'd carried through the woods the night before. 

“I think you might be a better shot than I am,” he quipped “so I’m going to let you shoot.” 

“Great, but what are we hunting?” 

“Deer makes the most sense. Maybe turkey if we see one.” 

“Oh no, do you know how many feathers you have to pull off a turkey before you can eat it? It’s easier to skin a deer” 

“See, that’s why you’re here. Deer it is.” 

It was easier to navigate the woods with snow on the ground. Easier to find where animals had been congregating, and easier to know where to sit and wait. Most of hunting was sitting and waiting. They passed a thermos of hot instant coffee between the two of them, when a doe came cautiously wandering into their purview. Ivy shushed John and she took aim, sending up a silent prayer thanking the universe for bringing her to them. She was big. Bigger than any of the squirrels or rabbits Ivy had hunted as a kid. She inhaled and squeezed the trigger. She got her, right in the head. An instant, quiet death. Perfect. 

John let out a celebratory shout. 

“That was incredible! I thought we were going to be out here for hours.” 

“All right, come on, we have to get her home now. That’s the hard part. Did you bring a knife with you? You might be better suited to this than me. I hate this part.” 

“Why don’t you head back to camp and warm up, and I’ll bring back what I can carry.” 

Ivy softly put her hand on the animal’s shoulder. She said a little blessing her father had taught her to honor the animal after its passing. 

“I’ll help. It’s just going to be so brutal with the snow.” 

Together, they made quick order of the deer, packing as much meat as they could into their gear and making their way back to the Airstream. 

"I haven't had venison since I lived in Iowa." 

"I figured Sokolov wasn't feeding you very well. While we're stuck out here, we might as well enjoy it." 

"Heh, well, I guess we can do something with it. We have enough to last quite a while."

John began to imagine just staying out here with her as she washed her hands and began cutting up the venison steaks and tossing them into a pa. He would miss his coffee maker, and Chaucer’s, and driving his car, but they could just get lost in the woods forever. No need to bring down Doyle and the rest of the bad actors in the syndicate if they just never left the woods. 

\---

It snowed again that night, making the roads impassable. Igor called their satellite phone and explained he was in Burlington, but unable to get out until some of the roads had been cleared. John assured him they would be fine, secretly quite happy that the weather had turned again. 

With no real entertainment other than each other, they spent the week making up for lost time, and absolutely destroying each other. This was how humans should spend winter, Ivy thought, staying inside, getting drunk and making love. They ate, slept, and talked. What else was there to do? 

John told her more about Helen, and she held his head in her lap, stroking his soft hair. He told her about the impossible task, his time serving the Tarasovs, and his time in the military. 

“How could you care for me, Ivy? I’ve done so many terrible things.” 

“I know that’s just part...of who you are. I know what's in your heart, John Wick. I don’t care about the other stuff.” 

She thought fondly of him cooking dinner for her, filling her wine glass, taking off her boots, and kissing her gently. His gentleness and tenderness. His kind heart. So what. He killed people. She had too, at this point. She hadn’t pulled the trigger, but she’d inadvertently ordered the slaying of dozens at this point. She wondered if she’d ever get over that, especially now that Sokolov was dead. What was the point? She continued to gently caress John’s hair, which she knew would lull him to sleep. They might as well sleep as much as they could while they were able to. She gently put a pillow under his head when his shallow breath told her he was asleep. Wanting to stretch and get some exercise, she put her coat and boots on and quietly closed the door.

For the first time in almost a decade, she wished for a cigarette, but settled on going for a quick walk through the woods. She wondered what day it was. She knew it was December, but she didn’t know what day. She had certainly missed Thanksgiving in New Liberty, but given the recent development of her finalized divorce with Gavin, she thought that was maybe a good thing. Christmas had to be coming. At a minimum, she should send a card to her mother to let her know she was alive, and some money to her niece. She would have to remember to do that when Igor came to get them. She could lie and say she was skiing for the holidays. Or something. She’d figure it out, trying to focus on the woods, the sun, and the delicious cold she'd missed so much. 

She trudged on for a while, until the wind began to bite through her clothing, and she headed back to camp, reflecting on everything that had happened to her since that night in August where she backed into John. How could she know it would have been one of the best things that ever happened to her? She tried to tell herself that at the end of all this, she got him. That’s what the game was for. For him. It would be worth it. 

\---

John woke to an empty space. Ivy was gone. He sprang up, sweaty despite the lack of heat and cold weather. He stood and grabbed his gun. Opened the door and looked out, seeing boot prints in the snow heading east. Just one set. She probably went for a walk. He sat back down on the bed and checked the satellite phone, seeing if he’d missed anything. 

Ivy returned, the chill billowing off of her. 

“You shouldn’t do that."

“Do what?” She asked, kicking the snow off her boots.

“Leave without telling me. I...it...scares me.” 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize we were back to captive rules again.” She unzipped her parka and blew on her hands to warm them. 

John froze. He never put it together that he had also been guilty of keeping Ivy imprisoned. Did...she even really love him? She’d never said it. Well, neither had he, but he guessed that Ivy knew. Or did she? 

“I’m sorry. I’m...skittish from having to get you from Sokolov’s. I'll never forgive myself for...the--” She cut him off.

“-I know. But he didn’t do anything. If this is going to work, long-term work, then I need you to trust me. We both have to live our lives, too.” 

John nodded. She was right. She also, for the first time, brought up a long-term. A future. With him. That gave him hope. He had always feared, in the recesses of his mind, that Ivy would get bored with him once she was free. Once she was out. He was convinced he couldn’t be anything more than a fling. A curiosity for the short term. He never wanted to push her, and he did his best to make her feel cared for, but he felt it was ultimately up to her. 

“Is that something you want? To be together long term?”

Ivy laughed. 

“Yeah, John. It is. Now, can I come in?” 

She took her boots and coat off, hanging them by their space heater. John realized how much he adored this version of Ivy, standing there in her polka dot long johns, her hair a frizzy mess around her head, red nose and cheeks from being outside. He loved this Ivy as much as formal gathering Ivy. As much as going on a stakeout Ivy. As much as Ivy coming in from a run. Ivy in her pajamas cooking herself an egg in the toaster oven, which he didn’t understand at all but trusted her when she swore it was the only way to cook one. Ivy working intently, a highlighter between her teeth. He loved her. His heart dropped into his stomach. He exhaled slowly. 

“What’s gotten into you, Wick?” 

“Ivy.” 

“Yeah?”

“Ivy, i have to say something to you.” 

”Is it something I did?” She asked, half paying attention to him, digging through her bag looking for some chapstick for her windburned lips, glancing up at him momentarily and smiling absentmindedly. 

“No, come here.” he put her bag down and pulled her close to him. 

“Ivy, I love you. I think I’ve known for a long time.”

Ivy smiled toothily, her her arms falling limply by her sides. 

“I love you too, John.”


	27. Chapter 27

The snow finally let up enough for Igor to retrieve them. A few days had turned into over a week and a half. John was thankful for the time with Ivy. He caught her up on the plan. Some pieces still needed to fit together, and John had a few other contacts he planned to leverage to help them take down Doyle and bargain to be left alone with whoever was in charge of the Syndicate now. Since John had killed Sokolov, he had paved the way for whoever took over, which he could use as a bargaining chip. 

As they packed up the camper, Ivy felt a prick of sadness. She was trying to be hopeful for a future, and was hoping that whatever came next would be quick, and they could go back to their lives. 

“So where do we have to go?”

“I meant for it to be a surprise, but after staying in a camper in Vermont in December while Igor made the rest of the necessary procurements and connections, I thought you might want a break.”

Ivy looked puzzled. 

“We’re staying in Manhattan. At least until after Christmas.”

“No. John. No. That’s too close to...all of our problems.”

“It’ll be fine. Igor will be with us. We’re hiding in plain sight.”

“What do you mean?”

“Vera has given us the use of her apartment until we can go home.”

Ivy threw the last bag into the back of Igor’s Range Rover. 

“I don’t like it John. I don’t...know that I trust anyone,” she zipped her parka all the way up to her nose to block out the wicked wind, “especially Vera.”

John put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed gently. 

“I understand. Do you trust me?”

“Of course.”

“Then we’ll be ok.”

  
  


——

Vera had apparently decided to make herself scarce during their stay, which Ivy thought was probably a good thing. Since her visit to the Sokolov compound, Ivy had a certain distaste for everything having to do with the Bratva including their widows. Though it loomed over Ivy that she did indeed owe Vera a favor. She's get there when she got there. 

She woke up early the first day they were there, and dressed to go buy coffee, taking her laptop with her after sticking a Post It to John’s phone:   
  


_ Hey,  _

_ Went out for coffee. Be back later. I’m fine.  _

_ \- Ivy _

It had been so long since she was able to do something normal like this. Just get up and do something she wanted. She bought a newspaper on her way and tried to catch up while enjoying her drink. She felt almost at peace again. It was a cold day in New York, and she enjoyed seeing the holiday decorations up. Right. It was December. December 18 according to the dateline on her newspaper. 

She was thinking about whether or not she should get John a gift (but what do you get the man who has everything she pondered) she thought about a project she’d started just before she had been taken by Sokolov. She pulled her laptop out of its leather tote and booted it up. Opening a file labeled “Polina Jovonovich(?)” she looked at what she had. She thought carefully about what she might be opening up if she went any further than her birthday, which she had figured out. She hadn’t found any photos, yet, or been able to figure out who John’s father could have been. 

She sighed. This wasn’t a good gift. Here John, here’s what fate had in store for your mother. Still on the hunt for your father. Merry Christmas. 

But she couldn’t help but press on. It was like peeling back old wallpaper, and once she started, she didn’t stop. She had to see what was under it. She emailed 0nyx, asking him if he could do some covert searching for her, mainly because she had no idea how public records were kept in Belarus. Nor did she speak the language, so hacking would be the only way to get what she wanted. And what she wanted was simply to know. If it was dreadful, she’d never tell him. But if it wasn’t, maybe she would tell him. 

She finished the last of her latte and brought her dishes to the counter, then put her coat on and left. 

She decided to get a gift for her niece while she was out. At 10 years old, she was hard to buy for, but she came up with a nice little haul, had the woman at the shop wrap it for her and then popped it in the mail. 

And as she headed back toward Vera’s, she realized that she really wanted to get him a gift. She’d never be able to give him what he’d given her. Financial freedom. A finalized divorce. But she could try to find something thoughtful. She had a few ideas. 

She looked up a rare wine store on her phone, and headed in that direction. She purchased the most expensive thing she ever bought in a bottle of very old bourbon that she knew he’d like. She got some beautiful marbled Italian paper for his book binding experiments, too, which she thought he’d like. 

Deciding it was high time to head back to Vera’s, she hailed a taxi and actually, for the first time in a while, had a pleasant day out without any outside intervention. 

John and Igor were quietly talking in the sitting room when she returned. She took her slushy boots off and went into the office to see if there was any wrapping paper in there. She wrapped everything with thick, luxurious cream paper and tied bows of crimson ribbon around the packages. 

She then planted herself at the dining table and got back to her work on Polina Jovanovich. 

But, 0nyx had something for her. John’s father was still alive. 

Ivy exhaled. That...that could be complicated. She wrote back to 0nyx asking him to do some additional digging. 


	28. Chapter 28

Igor and John wrapped up the final plan, for real this time, as they were certain that Ivy wouldn’t be kidnapped any time within the next two weeks. January 1st, and everything would be gone, they explained to her. Or so they hoped. 

Ivy nodded along as they told her what they needed her and 0nyx to find. Security keys. Any vulnerability in the current iteration of the Syndicate, which had been taken over by Doyle. 

She asked why, if Doyle got what he wanted, did they have to do this.

“Because it will never stop so long as we don’t,” Igor piped up.

“Ok. I understand. Is there anything left to consider?”

“Not now. Igor is going back to Chicago to spend the holiday with Moira and his son, so we’re breaking. The logistics have been set up and orders for necessary items have been placed. Once we have the proper security tokens from 0nyx, we’ll be ready.”

Ivy nodded. Fucking Moira. That might be a problem. She’d talk to Vera about amping up security and made a comment to try and get out in front of it.

“I think we should keep what we plan to do between the 4 of us and minimize conversation about it. We don’t know who might be watching or listening when.”

The men nodded in agreement. Igor stood, he and John exchanging goodbyes in Russian, and he shook Ivy’s hand once before gathering his luggage and leaving. 

“Do we really have a reduced schedule...of shit until after Christmas?”

“Yes. No one will be where they’re supposed to be. Doyle and Elaine and their...brood...go to the Caribbean every year. It’s best we wait.”

“Huh. I think this will be the first Christmas I’ve had off...ever?”

——

Despite so much of the month of December being an exercise in “hurry up and wait,” Ivy felt beyond grateful that she got to spend so much of her free time with John. She and 0nyx closed in on the last missing pieces for the plan on the 1st. 0nyx obtained the database of OTPs for the Syndicate network, which they really thought should have been better protected. Their loss, he said on their video call. 

She also got a name and address for John’s living father, who apparently lived in New York. Telling John she had to run some errands, she slipped out of the penthouse and headed to Brooklyn, where she would meet Mikita Jovonovich. 

Nervous, she walked up the steps in her boots and knocked on the door. No answer. She tried again. 

“Oh. It’s you,” said the man who opened the door, in heavily accented English. 

Ivy looked at the man in the door, recognizing him as the owner of Broken Arrow. The owner of the bar she used to work at. 

“Are you...Mikita Jovonovich?”

She was very confused. Maybe they lived together? 

“Used to be,” he offered. “You know my name.”

“Right. Mr. Kravchenko. So...wait…” she trailed off, standing stupidly on his snowy porch. He sighed, exasperated. 

“You’d better come in.”

Ivy entered the building, his home tidy and clean, with beautiful artwork hanging on the walls. Portraits of a woman who, ivy swore, looked just like John. Mr. Kravchenko/Mikita Jovonovich took her coat and returned with a vacuum flask of coffee and two mugs. 

He invited her to sit on the brown leather sofa, and she did, sipping slowly from the mug. 

“Now, it’s only because you worked for me for so many years and I know the nature of your other work that I did not kill you when you came to my door, calling me a name I haven’t been called in 50 years.” 

He paused. 

“So why?”

“Um. I don’t know how to tell you this, and maybe you already know, but you have a son.”

He scowled, in what ivy interpreted as confusion.

“You do. Jardani Jovonovich. He...lives here. He...well...we’re…” she trailed off. Mikita’s eyes were welling up. 

“I’m sorry. I...I should go.” she began to stand.

“No. Sit. I knew. I’ll...tell you.”

She sat back down, and Mikita began at the beginning. 

—-

A few hours later, ivy pulled her coat on, her face slightly tear stained from listening to what was probably the saddest story she’d heard in a while. Mikita didn’t want to meet John, and she understood that. It had been over 40 years since he’d seen him. He gave her some photos, and wrapped up one of the oil paintings he obsessively did of Polina in a bath towel and told her to take it. 

Not sure what else to do, she agreed.. He hugged her, tightly after walking her to the door.

“You can come back to the bar whenever you like. You’re a good girl. Take care of my son.”

She nodded. 

“Of course.”

She hailed a taxi and headed back to the penthouse, unsure how she was going to sneak past John with a 24x36 canvas. Maybe he’d be out. 

He wasn’t. He was cooking for them when she pushed her key into the lock and walked in. He greeted her from the kitchen and she quickly went to the office she’d stowed his other gifts in and dropped the painting and envelope of photos.

Hanging her coat up, she went to the kitchen. 

“Ivy,” he smiled, then noticed the remnants of her emotional conversation with Mikita and his face fell. He put the spoon he’d been holding down on the marble counter and walked over to her.

“What happened?” He said seriously. 

She didn’t know if she could lie to him successfully.

“It’s nothing. It’s fine.”

“No, I don’t think it is. You can tell me.”

She sighed. 

“Well. It’s sort of about you.”

John straightened up, a bit on the defense. 

“What about me?”

She stood, and went to the office, John sat dumbstruck in one of the counter stools in the kitchen, the rice he’d been cooking starting to burn. 

“Ivy? What do you mean it’s about me?”

She came back to the kitchen and turned off the range. This would probably be another long conversation. 

“Why do you have a towel?”

“I’m going to explain. I want to say that...I didn’t mean to go this far down this rabbit hole. I really didn’t. I peeled back a corner and I couldn’t stop. I’m sorry John. I’m so sorry.” 

John held his breath, knowing that she must have found out something about his past, but he’d been honest with her. She knew It all, so that was what worried him. 

“I...found your father.”

John scowled. Ivy went on, noticing that this particular expression could have been directly lifted off of Mikita’s face. 

“It started as an idea. Just to bring you some clarity. I don’t know. It started with your mother. I didn’t mean for it to go this far.”

John looked worried, and Ivy began to unwrap the painting, putting it on the kitchen island. John stared down at his own face, with fuller lips and long curly hair. He reached out to touch it.

“How did you…”

“Let me explain. You told me her name was likely Polina. I started there. I won’t bog you down with the details, but it started there and I found her birthday. Once I had that, 0nyx and I worked together to piece together more of it. He figured out your father was still alive.”

She put the envelope down next to the painting and motioned for him to open it. Inside were photos of the three of them. John as a little baby, balanced on his mother’s hip, his father’s arm wrapped around his mother. 

John had no idea what to say. He’d been rendered speechless, and he looked at Ivy. She gave him a wry, sympathetic smile, her eyes welling up again. 

“I'm sorry.”

He put the photo down and rubbed his ring finger. 

He looked at the offerings for a long time, totally unsure how to act. How dare Ivy rip this bandage off after so many years. But how kind of her to answer a question he’d casually wondered about for decades.

“Do you...do you want to know?”

He smiled softly.

“Who am I to deny my little fox the right to show off her kill?”

“John. No. It’s...it’s not like that. When you told me, my heart broke for you. I thought…”

He looked into her eyes, sad and pleading with him, but he just didn’t know if he wanted to know. But the child of him who lived in his soul really really wanted to know. 

“Ok. Tell me.”

She nodded, then gulped. 

“You had your mother’s name right. Polina Kovaleva. She was a poet, and a teacher. She met your father, Mikita Jovonovich in the late 50s in Minsk. He had a state position working on police vehicles but his true passion was painting.”

John stood, and poured them each a glass of bourbon. 

“Thank you. Because art was so tightly controlled in the Soviet Union, most artists knew other artists, especially in Minsk. Your father, in his own words, said he fell for Polina the moment he saw her at one of the meetups after the death of Stalin.”

“The thaw.” He responded. 

“ exactly. They fell in love quickly, and Mikita asked Polina to marry him. They moved out of Minsk, and into the countryside. They were happy, John. So happy. I wish you could have seen him talking about her, and about you. He loved you.”

He nodded. He loved me so much he abandoned me, he thought, and gestured for her to continue. 

“They had you, and you had completed their family.”

She reached up and touched his face. 

“Did you see how cute you were?”

John guffawed, and they smiled at each other, John barely keeping it together at this point. 

“Go on.”

“They had four good years. Then the KGB came and took your mother away for a poem she wrote that seemed beyond the party line. I guess...the enforcement of what was with the party line and what wasn’t ebbed and flowed a lot,” Ivy’s voice broke. 

John sniffled and reached out for her hand. 

“She...she was sent to a labor camp. Your father didn’t know what to do without her, and he took you and moved to Ukraine, where your grandparents lived. He ran though, leaving you behind, when he’d heard she died.”

“How did she die?” He asked softly. 

“Infection. She hurt herself and was never taken care of properly. John. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Why...did I end up here?”

“Your grandparents grew desperate. Or maybe they didn’t. I don’t know. They might have simply needed the money, and they sold you to...I believe she is called The Director.”

John closed his eyes. He was trying to remember anything before his rough childhood with them, Vera his only source of kindness. He put his head in his hands. He was thoroughly upset by this development in his history, and he turned to Ivy. 

“Why did you do this?” 

“I...thought you’d want to know.”

“I didn’t,” he stood and grabbed his coat off the hook. 

“John, I—“

“No.”

He spun on his heel and left.


	29. Chapter 29

How could she? Didn’t she know when to leave well enough alone? He’d made it this long without knowing it, and he was furious as he tramped through the snow in TriBeCa. He felt like there was a screaming child inside of him right now, ripping down everything he thought he knew about himself. This was too much. 

He’d never asked her to confront her past this way. Never. 

Or had he? He thought of what Ivy had lived through. What her life was like before she moved to New York. He felt his anger soften. He had done that. Who was he to say her trauma was less important than his? Sometimes he hated his inner voice who talked him off the cliff in moments like this. 

But he was still angry, and he didn’t plan to go back to the penthouse until he was less angry. He found a bar, walked inside, and planned to drink away his troubles. Or at least be out of the house until he felt he could ult talk to her without screaming at her. 

\--

Ivy didn’t bother to call. She didn’t think he’d pick up. She reached for the bourbon, pouring herself a sizable portion. How could she be so stupid, she wondered? She decided to text him. Because truly, she had no idea if he would come back. Her lack of experience in how to navigate an adult relationship didn’t really offer much of a framework for her to determine if this was going to be the end. She hoped not.   
Tight  
I’m sorry. I love you. 

And he left her on read. Well, I probably deserve that, she thought. She wanted to examine and think about the part of her that didn’t know when to stop. She should have left well enough alone. John, while not exactly the perfect picture of stability, seemed to try and deal with his demons. She wasn’t a therapist, so she couldn’t agree or disagree if it was in a healthy way, but she understood how something like this could tip the apple cart, especially when everything had been so carefully balanced. The lies crafted just so. John had grown up believing his mother had been a single unwed mother, possibly a sex worker, and while that might not be shocking or difficult to grapple with in today’s world, when John was born, it absolutely woud have been. She saw why it was such a great story. There was no avenue to question it. 

But now, knowing how loved and wanted he was, well. That could easily change the way someone thought about themselves. Fuck. She really messed up. She downed the rest of the bourbon and decided to listen to some music and try to come up with how she’d try to apologize, and how...she’d go on if he didn’t accept it. 

Now drunk, she walked into the bedroom and took one of his shirts out of the laundry. She put it to her nose and inhaled deeply. The faintest smell of the soap he used. Sweat. A touch of lavender from the detergent Doris used. She could lose it all. Again. And she began to weep for it. 

\---

John finally left the bar around 2. He remembered what he hated about loud bars in Manhattan, and he wobbled back in the cold to the penthouse. He was still really angry at her, but he wanted to see her. He made a promise to her. And...he loved her. 

When he got home all the lights were on still. The rice he’d been cooking the evening before was dried out, the gloopy mass having pulled away from the sides of the pan. Good intentions.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually been this drunk. He had to have been in his 20s. He knew he was being reckless. Anything could happen at any time. Ivy could already be gone. He steeled himself. Ivy. Right. 

He slipped his shoes off, wanting to keep quiet, because he still didn’t feel like talking to her, but he should make sure she was still here. He opened the bedroom door, and saw her curled up on top of the sheets. She had arranged one of his shirts around her. A dirty one it looked like. 

She stirred a little and turned over. He had planned to sleep in one of the other rooms, but found he couldn’t leave her once he was in the room. He sighed. He was unable to deny her anything. At least she doesn’t ask for much, because whatever it was, he’d capitulate.

He slinked over to the bathroom and quietly undressed, and carefully pulled the covers down around her, tucking her in. She still didn’t wake. John got into bed at long last and turned over. 

He wasn’t there when she woke up, even though she could have sworn that she felt him get into bed. Any sign of him was gone, shoes, phone, wallet. Well shit, thought Ivy. Maybe he came in for one last look and now he’s gone forever. She pulled the covers back over her head and commanded herself to go back to sleep. She couldn’t deal with it right now. 

John realized that he probably should have known when he developed feelings for someone bright and inquisitive that eventually she might hurt him with information. He didn’t believe there was any malice behind what she’d done, so he didn’t think it was fair to blame her for delivering the message. He drew this conclusion while staring up at the ceiling that morning, before getting out of bed to try and be productive. He gathered the portrait of his mother up from the kitchen island where it had been left the night before and he put his coat on. He had a few errands to run. 

First, he should frame this painting. It was a gorgeous portrait, and after all, his mother did deserve reverence in his life. He wished he could remember her, but maybe if he couldn’t this could be there in his place. She had loved him, he knew that now. He gently put the canvas down in the front seat of the car Igor had left him, and drove to a frame shop in Chelsea. He chose a gilded frame, which would normally not really be his style, but he felt this portrait deserved something spectacular. 

His second stop was to find two gifts for Ivy. One that said “I’m sorry” and another one for Christmas. 

Ivy was a practical woman. She aimed mostly for comfort and durability in her clothing and accessories, and wasn’t one to fuss over much. She was never anyone but herself, and she was very particular about the things she did use. 

She had favorite pencils, favorite highlighters. She favored decades old t-shirts and black jeans. A leather jacket and black leather tote that had at this point traveled all over New York and other parts of the country. She wore the same Red Wing boots when it was cold and the same black Adidas sneakers when it was warm, only ever replacing them when they were too worn to keep wearing. 

He also didn’t want to outfit her with the same nouveau riche garbage every wealthy-ish dude bought for their...heh...was Ivy his girlfriend?

He said it out loud as he drove to . It felt bad in his mouth. She was more. She occupied a nebulous space felt….bigger and more important than just a girlfriend. 

Going back to his original thought, he didn’t want to just drop a bunch of money at Cartier to have her look like everyone else. 

But jewelry did say “I’m sorry,” quite loudly.


	30. Chapter 30

Ivy had gotten up with the intention to make coffee but found she could only look back through her notes on everything she learned about Polina Jovonovich, as if checking it over again would show her how to apologize to him. She also was holding out hope that the fact that John’s phone was sitting on the nightstand meant that he’d have to come back for it. 

She closed her laptop and pulled the blankets off, plodding to the bathroom to wash up and get dressed. She slipped her shoes on and her coat, thinking a walk would do her good. 

\---

John hoped she would be asleep still. Given that the bedroom smelt like a brewery when he walked in early that morning, he hedged his bets that she would be. Balancing two coffees in one hand as meddled with the doorknob, he realized she was gone when he arrived. This was all beginning to feel as if it were scripted he thought, shaking his head as he took his coat off and hung it up. 

Seconds later, the doorknob rattled. John beat her to the punch and opened it before she could get it unlocked, and Ivy, cheeks flushed, stood in the doorway, squinting for a moment as if to doubt his realness, then nearly spilling her own coffee, sputtered and spoke. 

“Oh. It’s you.” 

“Who else were you expecting?” 

She wasn’t sure what to say, so she pursed her lips and stood lamely in the hallway. 

“You have a tendency to freeze when you don’t know what to do or say, Ivy. It’ll get you killed one day.” 

He moved to the side to allow her in. 

“By you?” 

“After all this, you still don’t trust me with your life.” he said, trying to ignore the sting of her question. 

“Yeah well, I’ve also never pissed you off before.” 

She had turned away and wouldn’t look at him as she fussed with her jacket and scarf, sending a cloud of her perfume into the air, which he inhaled greedily before moving to take a step toward her and finding her chin with his fingers, pulling her up to look at him. He commanded her gaze. She didn’t struggle.

“You’ve pissed me off before. You escaped my home. You shot one of Sokolov’s men after I told you not to, you constantly poke your nose where it doesn’t belong, and none of it matters to me.” 

“John, I --”   
“Quiet. 

She turned her head before John cut her off and gently pulled her back to meet his eyes. 

“You don’t upset me often,” he said, slipping his hand from her chin up the side of her face to push her hair behind her ear, “but even when you do, I don’t know how else to tell you that I’m never going to hurt you.” 

He kissed her, hard, feeling her gasp with nowhere for it to go. 

You should feel that for a while, he thought, pulling away to speak again, “so I’d appreciate it if you’d stop jumping to that conclusion as often as you do.” 

Ivy glared up at him, silent for a long time. 

“Well, are we just not going to talk about it?” 

“Talk about what?” 

“You know what.” 

She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the couch, sliding the paper cup one of the coffees was in. 

“Come on. Let it out,” she gesutred to him with her hands. 

He rolled his eyes and took a long sip out of his coffee cup. It was lukewarm, but he had a feeling if he got up to warm it up, Ivy would be upset. 

“It’s fine.” 

“You left in the middle of the night, came home drunk, and then left again this morning. I...just want your honesty.” 

“Fine. I....can’t explain why I reacted that way. I never have..” he trailed off. 

Ivy bit the inside of her cheek, trying to keep from explaining to him what she thought was wrong and trying to fix it for him. She remembered John didn’t speak as freely as she did, so she waited in agonizing silence.

“I….had to believe what they told me. Knowing would have made everything worse. Having the shit beaten out of you for failing was difficult enough to take. If I knew my mother loved me, my father cared...well…” he shrugged, shoulders slumped, dejected and broken in a way that he finally put words to. 

“I shouldn’t have done what I did,” she managed. 

John noticed a flicker of anger in Ivy’s steely eyes. One he wasn’t sure how to handle. She scooted closer to him. 

“Did you...ever...think to kill her?”

“The director?”

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t work that way, Ivy.” 

He gave her a long look, the anger still simmering away behind her eyes. Ivy had unset her jaw, which she didn't realize she'd been clenching. She hated what had happened to him, thinking of what she would, with her crude and limited skills, do to the woman who had tortured the man she loved. 

"I just...I thought...I'm sorry, John. I kind of feel like I don't really know what to do or say." 

"You don't have to do or say anything. I'll deal with it in my own way, in my own time."

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my first fic in over a decade. I hope you enjoy, and feel free to leave me any feedback. 
> 
> I have changed a few things. The High Table is gone, and all of the services and facilities they provided are gone, too. This causes some chaos in the order of things, and means trouble for our heroes. 
> 
> This is a slow burn, and I've had some fun with world building, but I promise you there will be some of the good stuff later.


End file.
